


Toy Soldiers

by ThornyRose42



Series: Toy Soldiers [1]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Batfamily Feels, Everyone Needs A Hug, Hurt Dick Grayson, Suicide Attempt, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2019-06-22 13:04:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 36
Words: 65,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15582603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThornyRose42/pseuds/ThornyRose42
Summary: Bit by bit, we're torn apart.  We'll never win, but the battle rages on.A family member goes missing.  Naturally, the Bat-Family is ready to go to Hell and back to rescue him.  Once all is said and done, how do you go back to normal?





	1. Treading Water

He was not equipped for this. 

Batman was incommunicado and had been on and off for the last nine months.  Batgirl was not answering his calls.  Tim was not eating or sleeping consistently. Damian was arguing with Tim again, and he was 99% sure that some type of expensive equipment just shattered across the kitchen floor.  Alfred was barely keeping up with the housework, and all Jason wanted was ten minutes to sneak a smoke.

Jason Todd desperately wanted that smoke. 

That wasn’t quite accurate.  What Jason desperately wanted was the one member of his family who could maintain what passed for sanity in their patchwork family.  That was not going to happen. 

Jason snapped the minute he entered the kitchen. 

It must have been a rage blackout because he had no recollection of anything that came flying out of his mouth.  Judging from the shocked reactions of his younger brothers – and Jason used that term loosely – it must have hit several nerves.  Tim slunk toward the hidden passageway to the Batcave and Damian stormed past an equally shocked Alfred as he went to his room. 

“I trust that the situation has been handled, Master Jason,” Alfred said dryly as he set down a silver tray with a large pot of coffee on the kitchen island.

Jason scoffed.  “Hardly.  Jesus, I don’t know how the hell you’ve handled us for this long.  I’d’ve quit years ago.”  He sat at one of the barstools.  Alfred took one across from him.

“It does take an immense amount of patience to raise teenagers of any gender.  Having lived through Bruce’s teen years, I must stay that each one of you presented a unique challenge.”  Alfred poured himself a cup of coffee followed by a dash of cream.  He stirred in a spoonful of sugar.  “A rewarding challenge, mind you… but a challenge nonetheless.”

Jason took the largest mug off of the tray.  He filled it to the brim with black coffee and savored the smell.  Alfred must have brewed the good stash, the one that was kept for either special occasions or when shit had hit the fan.  It was not anyone’s birthday, so it had to be the latter.  He let the first sip slowly flow over his tongue.  The old butler even knew how to get it to proper temperature.  Jason would pay to know Alfred’s coffee brewing secrets, but his personal checking account held only $15.27.  “Goddamn,” he sighed.  “Any word from Bruce?”

“None so far.”

“Figures.  Justice League?”

“Oddly silent, but then again I don’t have them on speed-dial.”

“Titans said anything?” 

“Only that Robin is welcome to return once the family situation has been resolved.  Apparently, he had been falling back into old habits.  He nearly killed one of their foes before Ms. Starfire was able to restrain him.  Master Bruce sent Duke out there to make sure that our family was represented, and to provide him with additional training.”

“She knocked him out and flew him here, didn’t she?”

Alfred sighed.  “Perceptive as ever.”

“Nah, I just know Kor'i.”  Jason topped off his mug of coffee.  “God, everything has gone tits up.” He ran his fingers through his hair.  “Bruce hasn’t said anything about leads, has he?”

“Not that I’m aware.  Then again, I have only seen him once this week and I know that his bed has not been used in some time.  Tim is also working on leads, and he thinks he’s found someone in the Caribbean that may help us when the time comes.”

Jason stared into his mug.  The coffee suddenly looked like an abyss.  “Do you think we’ll get him back, Alfred?”

Alfred topped up Jason’s mug before beginning to pack up the tray.  The pair barely made a dent in the coffee pot.  It was placed in the refrigerator.  “You came back to us, Master Jason.  I have to think that Master Richard will find a way to do the same.”


	2. Act Grown

Damian Wayne hated everyone and everything and wanted nothing more than to be left the hell alone.

Todd had no right to scold him as though he were a paternal figure.  Yes, he had been picking a fight with Drake.  Yes, he did need to work on his anger issues.  However, Todd was the last person on the planet to lecture him about the proper handling of anger.  He was the only member of this so-called family that was permitted to break Father’s golden rule regarding firearms and murder.  Normally, Damian could tolerate Todd’s presence during their infrequent collaboration.  However, since The Incident Todd had decided that he needed to act as a brotherly mentor.

Coming from the man that they see once, maybe twice, a year in a familial capacity, such a statement was rich.  Todd’s feeble attempts at brotherly affection had gotten more irritating ever since Damian’s involuntary leave of absence from the Teen Titans.

Damian flopped face-first onto his bed.  Titus, his Great Dane, must have sensed his master’s distress because he began to lick Damian’s ears.  Alfred the cat did not move from his spot on one of Damian’s pillows, but regarded his master with an expression that looked oddly like sympathy.  Whatever.  At least his animals understood him.

Demon Brat, indeed.  Todd did not have the trust of animals.  Todd did not have the trust of anyone. 

Damian flipped over onto his back and grabbed his MP3 player from the nightstand.  He shoved the earbuds as deep as they would go into his ears.  He scrolled through his playlist, bypassing his usual favorite songs from Saudi Arabia, Egypt, and Palestine until his eyes locked onto one song in particular.

Clicking play and disabling the “play all” feature, he laid back onto his pillow and surrendered to his melancholy.

Damian was not a fan of independent music, but Andrew McMahon in the Wilderness had been one of Dick’s favorites. 

He could almost see Dick behind the wheel of the beat-up car that they had rented to take another shot at a road trip to Titans Tower in San Francisco.  The drive from New Jersey to California had taken more than a week and a half.  They could have done it in less time, but Dick had insisted on stopping at historical sites and tourist traps that lined the route.  He had also insisted on taking pictures, eating unhealthy snacks, and singing along to the radio.

Damian had protested Dick’s choice of music the entire time – especially Bob Dylan, who had to be the only tone-deaf man in the universe with a singing career.  Damian’s protestations only made Dick sing louder.  Damian didn’t know Dick could sing.

_And you can’t look back_

_Some men you just can’t save_

The air conditioner had broken in South Dakota, so the pair had no choice but to keep the windows down to escape the summer’s heat.  The wind whipped in their hair as this song played on the satellite radio.  Damian could feel tears brewing in the corners of his eyes as he remembered Dick singing this song at the top of his lungs.  Damian had been sulking against the window, watching the prairie grass and shrubbery fly by.  He had called this song “insipid” at the time.

_Everything’s gonna be better on the West Coast._

_Better than the mess that we left back home._

Damian would give anything to go back and be less cynical about the whole trip. It was completely different from the first trip that began Damian’s involuntary exile from Gotham.  It had been fun.  He shared his stories with the other Titans.  He still had the pictures in an album under his bed.  Brown had made the album for him on one of her rare scrapbooking sprees.  His mouth moved to the lyrics and the empty feeling in his chest grew.

He wanted to do flips off of rooftops and have Dick ruffle his hair and make fun of his attempts to be a serious adult.  He wanted Dick to hug him and tell him that everything was going to be alright.  He wanted his Batman.  He wanted his brother.  It wasn’t fair.  If he had not been incapacitated, none of this would have happened.  Dick would be on Earth and everything would be right with the world. 

Damian had tried calling his mother five months ago to see if her criminal contacts would be of any use.  Talia al Ghul was fickle on the best of days, cruel on the worst.  She had refused to help him, stating that he had made his choice and that collateral damage was a necessary evil.  Damian thought he understood his mother before.  He didn’t now. 

When the song ended, he stared at the ceiling in silence. 


	3. Jump to Warp

Fourteen cups.

Three cans.

Tim Drake was fairly certain he was going to have heart problems when he got older.  If/when he got older. 

Jason had died.  Damian had died.  Bruce had died.  Hell, even Superman had died.  They all came back.  Even Stephanie and Dick had “died,” but Tim knew that faking your death did not count as actually dying.  Dick had been mostly dead after that incident with the Murder Machine.  That seemed about right.  He had heard that somewhere.  He had even faked his own death in the line of duty.  If death was not the end, abduction by extraterrestrials certainly was not either.

The caffeine buzzed pleasantly in his brain as Tim tried to stare at all four screens simultaneously.  Methamphetamines of some sort would probably be more efficient, but Tim remembered what drugs had done to Arsenal and that was enough to dissuade him from that path.  There were enough dark roads that diverged in yellow woods.  Considering how much caffeine that Tim had ingested over the last eight months, he may have travelled all of them by now. 

“There is a grilled cheese sandwich and a small salad by your left elbow.  I’m going out on patrol for five hours.  It needs to be in your stomach by the time I get back.”

 Tim grunted, barely acknowledging Jason’s orders.  He was on to something.  He was viewing and reviewing the Cave’s security videos from That Night and could not afford to miss a frame.  Tim registered the sound of Jason’s – now Red Hood’s – motorcycle speeding out of the Batcave.  No, that wasn’t Red Hood’s motorcycle.  It was Nightwing’s.  Todd had been masquerading as Nightwing for the last eight months. 

Tim did not have the heart to tell Jason that his charade fooled no one.  The entire Bludhaven Police Department knew that this Nightwing was an imposter.  They were too corrupt to coordinate an assault against Jason.  Additionally, a massive shipment of heroin had arrived at the Bludhaven docks, and any help from a mask was better than no help from a mask.  Tim shot off the intel to Jason before resuming his footage.

He knew where Dick was, but he didn’t know _where_ Dick was.  Apokalips was a surprisingly large planet, and intelligence would be vital if any sort of assault was going to be coordinated.  There were slight variations in Parademon armor.  If he can figure out what the variations mean, he might be able to –

“Todd is going to be back in thirty minutes.  You may want to eat that.  He will pull the plug on you.”

“I don’t need your help, Damian.”

“You need to eat.  If you pass out on the floor again, I’m taking a sharpie and drawing on your face.”

“Screw. You.”

“Nope.  I know what that means, and I’m pretty sure you’re too small.”  Tim stopped typing and shot a look at the younger child.  His eyebrows almost reached his hairline.

“You have been spending way too much time with Jason.  And that doesn’t even make sense.”

“Neither does subsisting on fourteen cups of coffee and three cans of guarana tea.”  Tim resumed typing.  Damian sighed.  “Look… Tim… about our earlier disagreement –”

_Disagreement_ , Tim thought as he continued analyzing the footage, _you threw a damn communicator at my head and said that my mom should have done the world a favor and shaken me as a baby._

“It had come to my attention that my grandfather once referred to you as ‘Detective,’ a title that was only previously bestowed upon my father, who my grandfather holds in high regard despite their ideological differences.” 

_Why can’t he just talk like a normal teenager instead of a pompous ass?_ thought Tim. 

Damian was still talking.  “Your investigative skills have been vital towards locating our older brother, and I have been frustrated by my inability to contribute towards returning him to our care.”  Damian sighed, “In essence… I’m sorry.”

That got Tim’s attention.  He stopped typing.  “Wait… you’re actually apologizing to me?”

Damian glared.  “That’s what I’ve been doing for the last three minutes!”

“You never apologize.”

“I am fully aware of my character flaws, Drake.”

“Are you sick?  Are you dying?”

“No, you ignorant –” Damian took a calming breath.  Then another.  “I miss Grayson and he’s the only one in the family who has made any attempt to understand and accept me.  Despite my contempt for you and Todd… you are the only brothers I have left.  I don’t have anyone else to talk to because they are not here or are overwhelmed.”

Tim turned around and looked at Damian.  Really looked at him.  Beneath all the pompous bluster and rudeness was a grieving thirteen-year-old kid whose father was gone.  Tim knew what it was like to lose a dad.  Bruce may have adopted him, but Jack Drake was the one who had taken him to ball games and taught him how to read.  Raised by killers, Damian didn’t have those experiences and used violence and anger as a way to make himself known.  Bruce may have been Damian’s biological father, but he had only started working on his parental skills within the last few years.  Tim sighed.  “I miss him too, Damian.”

“Do you think we’ll find him?”

“I’m close.  And when it comes time to coordinate the assault, your experience in tactics will be necessary.”

Damian brightened.  “I’ll need knowledge of the terrain, enemy troop movements, available resource, et cetera.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still tweaking some of the later chapters. I don't have a set schedule for updating, but I'll try to get as much up as I can at a reasonable pace. It's at 19 chapters so far, and I'm still working on parts of the middle and the ending. 
> 
> Your patience is greatly appreciated!


	4. Broken Crown

_Nine months prior_

Everything went sideways faster than even Batman could have anticipated.

It was no secret that Darkseid held a specific grudge against Batman and enjoyed assaulting the Earth.  What no one had anticipated was the speed in which Batman’s headquarters was discovered and assaulted.  

Batman was coordinating a global defense with the Justice League.  The Batgirls and The Signal were defending the Clock Tower, the family’s other primary safehouse in Gotham where several citizens and members of the GCPD had taken refuge.  The assault on the Clock Tower was abandoned once the Parademons realized their target did not live there.  Batgirl managed to relay a message warning the Manor before communications went dead.

There was barely enough time to mount a complete defense of the Manor.  The Cave’s external exit shielding had been activated as soon as Darkseid’s ships had reached the atmosphere.  Alfred had managed to fire off several rounds of his shotgun through a hole in the exterior wall.  Masters Damian, Timothy, and Richard were incapacitating as many of the fiendish creatures as possible without committing murder.  Master Jason, free from such restraints, was dropping as many of the demons as his bullets would allow.

The odds and the numbers were not in their favor.

Damian – Robin – was thrown through several walls and lay on the floor unconscious.  A Parademon approached him but was shot by Jason – Red Hood. 

Although Alfred had seen combat before, he still struggled to keep his own calm when his family was involved.

“Butler, get Robin,” shouted Red Hood as he shot two more of the flying creatures. 

Alfred scooped the boy into his arms and realized that the boy’s injuries were more severe than he had thought.  Robin needed immediate medical attention.

“DOWN!” Dick – Nightwing – bellowed before lighting a flamethrower.  Where that flamethrower came from, only heaven knew.  As the Parademons inside of the Manor caught fire and activated the sprinkler system, Red Hood, Red Robin, and Alfred carrying Robin ran down the secret entrance to the Batcave.  Nightwing followed closely behind and placed the Cave on lockdown with his voice print.

The screams of the Parademons could be heard echoing inside of the cave.  The group knew that both doors could not hold them off forever.

“We have to get out of here,” said Red Hood.

“Batmobile – the submersible one,” panted Nightwing.  “Maybe they can’t track us underwater.”

“Good idea, I’ll check the fuel.”  Red Hood ran to the car stationed in the water and began pre-launch checks.

“Alfred, get Robin into the car.  Keep an eye on him.  R-Squared,” Nightwing threw two duffel bags to him.  “Get as much medical, water, and food supplies in there as you can in two minutes.  It’ll supplement what’s already packed in the Batmobile.”  Red Robin ran to the medical corner first, throwing armfuls in there.  Alfred ran as gently as he could to the Batmobile, his precious cargo still in his arms.  Robin whimpered in pain but remained relatively unconscious.

The screams were getting louder, and something metallic was beginning to break.

“Holy shit, they’re coming through the damn steel door,” said Red Hood as he wrapped up the last thing on the pre-launch check list.  He hopped out and stood next to his brother as Red Robin tried to find extra room for their supplies.

Nightwing and Red Hood stared down into the submersible.  Red Robin had done his due diligence and had both bags filled with food and medication.  They took up a spare seat by themselves.

The sub could only fit four now.

Red Hood checked his clips.  He barely had half of one left.  It would not be enough, but he could stay behind.

“Get in the car,” Nightwing whispered.

There was a loud thud at the door, as Red Hood moved Nightwing away from the sub.  Alfred could still hear their conversation.

“No way, Dick.  I’ve got ten rounds left.  That’ll buy you some time.”

“You’re the better navigator and underwater pilot.  We’ve lost you once.  We’re not doing it again.”

“Dick, this is insane.  I –” Red Hood blinked and found himself on the business end of his last remaining gun.

“Get in. The damn. Car.”

Red Hood was not one for brotherly affection under normal circumstances.  However, he found himself in the middle of a hug with his elder brother. 

“Take care of them,” Nightwing whispered.  “Please?”

Red Hood nodded and took the driver’s seat.  Red Robin was in the front passenger’s seat.  Alfred and Robin were in the back. 

“Wait, Nightwing, you can’t –” Red Hood knocked Red Robin unconscious before he could jump out and confront Nightwing.  Alfred stared up at the eldest son with a protest on his lips.

“I’ll be right behind you, ok?  I’ll be right behind you,” Nightwing said as the top of the submersible closed over them.

Those words had haunted Alfred Pennyworth ever since.  


	5. Pretender

It felt weird without the helmet, but Jason was learning to adapt.  The form fitting Nightwing suit did wonders for his figure and was an unusual confidence booster.  Dick Grayson was a sly dog, knowing that people would be busy staring and might get distracted from his face.  Getting around was pretty simple. Bludhaven was laid out in a grid pattern like Gotham.  Jason had dropped by enough to have a rough understanding of the local geography. 

In a way, this patrol was easier than Gotham.  In other ways, it was not.

It was nice not having to worry about the usual Rogue’s Gallery.  No Clayface.  No Joker.  No Professor Pyg.  However, in some ways Nightwing’s usual Rogue’s Gallery was just as dangerous.  Jason had already tangoed with Blockbuster and knocked him into next week.  He was fairly certain the savage beat-down gave away the fact that Bludhaven’s usual cape was MIA.  Nightwing’s biggest problem was gang activity.  It was like fighting picnic ants – one trail would be destroyed, and another would open up within hours. 

That was the big problem with Bludhaven: the city was basically Gotham’s ugly stepsister.  The Gotham City Police Department could exist without the Bat Family.  Those guys were more than competent to handle the standard homicides, carjackings, thefts, and pickpocketings without interference from Batman and his brood.  They produced results, especially once Jim Gordon became Commissioner and weeded out the corruption within the bureau.  The good cops had ties in their community and upheld the concept of “protect and serve.” 

The bad cops just moved downriver to Bludhaven. 

Nightwing did not have the support of the Bludhaven PD, and that made his job harder.  The Bludhaven PD was understaffed, overworked, and corrupt to the rafters.  Bribery and grift were commonplace, and even the simple crimes often went overlooked and unsolved.  Jason realized that this mission was entirely thankless.  There was one cop who Nightwing had worked with, but she had her gun drawn on Jason the minute she figured out he wasn’t Dick.

Story of Jason’s life, right there.  She even started referring to him as “Nightwing,” complete with finger quotes.

The cop did seem genuinely apologetic to hear that Dick had been abducted, which was odd.  Her gruff exterior had dropped when Jason relayed an abridged version of what happened.  Her sympathy did not stop her from threatening to arrest Jason at the end of every single one of their brief chats together.  It was almost becoming routine.

Jason paused at the top of Dick’s apartment building and surveyed the city.  He heard another set of boots approaching.  “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

“Funny,” Batgirl retorted as she approached his side.  Jason turned around and saw Orphan perched on one of the industrial sized HVAC units.  He waved at her.

“How nice of you to finally answer my phone calls.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.  Got caught up in some work for the League.  They needed a coordinator and a hacker… you know how it goes.”

“I’m assuming that they demanded radio silence?”

“Pretty much, considering that they were doing some reconnaissance of Apokalips.”  Jason stared at Barbara.  She shrugged, “Batman didn’t want to get our hopes up.  Also, the League was concerned that the reconnaissance mission would have been seen as an act of war.  We aren’t in a position to defend ourselves against a massive onslaught with our big guns in space.”

“But they found something.”

Barbara nodded.  “They ran a genetic trace.  The signal was faint, but it was there.  D – your predecessor is on Apokalips.  The main city.”

Jason sighed.  “Is he alive?”

Barbara stared off of the rooftop.  “According to Batman, he said that the signal had moved several times during their observation of the planet.  So, yes.”  Barbara smiled.  “I don’t know how we’re going to get him off the planet, or what Darkseid has done to him since.  But now that the cave has been rebuilt and we have a more precise location….”

“We can bring him home.”

Barbara nodded.  “Again, I’m sorry about the radio silence.  I was under orders to keep it that way.”  Jason nodded.  When Barbara Gordon apologized, she was always sincere.  It was one of the things that Jason liked about her.  She was genuine. 

Dick Grayson had no idea how lucky he was to have the love and respect of this woman.  Yet another reason why Jason hated him.

“I blame Batman.  Just when it looks like he’s becoming a team player, he pulls this shit.”

Barbara shrugged.  “I get it.  I wasn’t happy about it either.  I know everyone has been pulling out all of the stops, and I know Batman knows that as well.  He’s had a lot of projects lately.  Batman thinks a few of the auxiliary Leaguers may have reverse engineered the Parademon process to the point where they may be able to bring someone back.”  Jason stared at her incredulously.  “It’s still experimental.  Don’t get your hopes up.”

“B-girl, this is the best news I’ve heard in nine months.  This has been the longest nine months of my life, and I’m including the time period after the Lazarus Pit in that too.”  Jason stared out at the Bludhaven skyline.  The horizon was slowly changing from deep indigo to a navy blue.  “Christmas was a disaster.  New Year’s was a disaster.  God… everything has been a disaster.  I want to get out of this suit, go back to my little team, and visit my so-called family once or twice a year.  Hopefully everything gets back to normal as soon as D-bag gets back.”

Barbara stared out at the Bludhaven skyline as the sun rose.  “I hope so too… but I don’t know if it if will.”


	6. In a Multiverse, Badly Explained

21 January 2019

10:00 a.m.

Watchtower Space Station

The Justice League was ready to launch a rescue mission.  Batman called his support team up to the Watchtower to fill them in on the briefing.

“Support team?  Fuck you, Batman, we’re your goddamn family.”

“Red!”

“No,” yelled Red Robin – Timothy Drake-Wayne – in complete exasperation.  “Fuck this ‘I work alone’ bullshit.  Jesus Christ, Batgirl, most of us have been formally adopted by this asshole,” he pointed at Batman who was flanked by the other Justice Leaguers.  “I love you, Batman, but cut the crap.”

Green Arrow could barely contain his snicker.  Batman glared at him.  Green Arrow stopped. 

Barbara rolled her eyes.  She was the last on the transporter pad, having finally wrangled Red Hood into coming.  His status as an anti-hero often put him at odds with the Justice League. 

“It’s good to see you all,” said Wonder Woman as Batgirl, Robin, Red Robin, Spoiler, Orphan, and Red Hood approached the rest of the League.  Stephanie, dressed as Spoiler, was gawking at the size of the place.  Occasionally she would excitedly whisper to Cassandra – Orphan -- who was trying her hardest to melt into the floor.  “We have conference room four set up for this meeting.  It has also been secured.  Where’s the newest addition?  I was looking forward to meeting him.”

“The Signal’s with the Titans,” replied Barbara, ignoring Damian’s scowl at the mention of the Teen Titans.  Damian was still furious that he had been forced to go home due to his use of excessive force. 

The group headed into conference room four to find Big Barda already seated at the table.  The younger members of the Bat-Family glanced at each other.  Big Barda was from Apokalips and had once been one of Darkseid’s personal guards.  Everyone nodded in respect before taking their seats.  The Bat-Family took one side of the table.  The Justice League took the other.

“We know that you have been working on formulating a rescue operation for Nightwing,” God bless Batman.  He did not cut to the chase when it was time for business.

“Yeah,” responded Jason.  “So?”

“What Batman means,” Wonder Woman shot him a look, “is that we know that there is strength in numbers, and it came to our attentions that you may have come to the point where there is a workable option.”  Wonder Woman looked at the table.  “The last thing we want is for your family to suffer any more loss than it already has.”

Jason bristled.  Damian crossed his arms.  Stephanie and Cassandra looked at each other.  “We’ve already shared everything with Batman,” stated Tim. 

“Do you have a plan for his recovery?” asked Green Lantern.  Since Hal Jordan was out patrolling the sector, his seat was filled by John Stewart. 

The Bat-Family looked at each other.  “We’re working on it,” said Tim.

“Before we do anything… rash,” countered Superman, “Barda has agreed to help us with this venture.  We can combine what we know with what she knows and create the best option.  My only request is that the youngest members remain in support capacities only.”  Before Damian could open his mouth in protest, Superman interrupted.  “I know that there are some younger heroes who would not want to go through the same grief that you have gone through.” 

Damian did not continue his protest.

Barda stood.  Screens emerged from the table in front of each seat, showing files of information.  “Parademons have existed on Apokalips for thousands of years.  However, due to Darkseid’s numerous military campaigns, many of the natural Parademons have perished in battle.  The few that remain are now in a training capacity.  Darkseid has had to resort to a new process of creating his army.  The new and modified Parademon conversion process is similar to zombification in some respects.  A virus or parasite infects a host and takes control of the host’s vital functions and higher cognitive processes.  It creates a new organism that is completely physically slaved to the parasite.  Once infection is complete, the physical form becomes that of a natural-born Parademon.  This is only part of the process.

“The Parademon must be then be mentally conditioned to obey the wishes of Darkseid.  The infected must be placed into a conversion machine, which completes the rewrite of the brain.  The machine then molds armor directly onto the skin of the Parademon.  The cycle continues until all hosts are slaved.  After this, additional training will maintain the mental conditioning of any Parademons that did not die in any military engagements.”

“I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say that by ‘training,’ you mean ‘torture,’” retorted Red Hood.

Barda looked uncomfortable.  “Darkseid would not see it that way, but yes.”

The room fell silent.  “This process sounds irreversible,” whispered Orphan.

“It is not supposed to be.  However, there are two Parademons that have managed to break free of their mental conditioning and are living independently.  Red Robin discovered the one who calls himself ‘Mike,’ and the other was with a group of villains before he died,” responded Barda.

“I spoke to Michael,” said Batman.  “He allowed me to perform a physical examination and collect samples of his DNA… in exchange for an internet hotspot and a laptop.”

Green Lantern frowned at Batman.  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Batman shrugged.  “He’s caught up on _Game of Thrones_ and wants to order merchandise online.  Also, he was growing increasingly frustrated with trying to keep track of his stock portfolios via phone.  A little social interaction on the internet can’t hurt.”

The Justice Leaguers and the older members of the Bat-Family exchanged significant glances over the table.  Everyone wanted to ask Batman if he had heard of internet porn, but no one wanted to die. 

Barda broke the awkward silence.  “His willing contribution allowed us to come up with a reversal process for those who were living when they became Parademons.”

 “Wait,” Jason stopped leaning in his chair and frowned.  “Since when can that happen?”

“What do you mean?” said Barda.

“I mean in what universe can the whole process be reversed?  Like, why didn’t we create and-or know about this earlier?”

“This one,” replied Barda as she glared at Jason.

Jason stammered.  “Well… yeah… but which universe are we in, exactly?”

 Tim looked at Jason.  “This one,” he replied slowly.

“Don’t patronize me, Replacement.”

“Then don’t act like an idiot, Hood.  And it’s Red Robin.”

Jason took a long calming breath and exhaled slowly.  “There are multiple universes, Bird-brain.  Because some cosmic entity decides to turn it off, then turn it back on again every so often because they got bored with fucking with our lives and want a clean slate to try again.”

“Oh really,” said Tim sarcastically.  “Like when?” 

“Well, there was that one time that this massive cosmic entity decided to destroy everything and a bunch of villains but not villains tried to stop it until the Flash” he pointed at Barry Allen who was sitting directly across from Jason, “killed himself so we could, I don’t know, fucking live.  I think I died after that because the universe hated me because I’m not Golden Boy and, like, everyone fucking knew that but whatever.  I’ve gotten over that… kind of… sort of… anyway.

“Then there was that time where a batshit crazy Superman and Superboy,” Jason pointed at Superman, “busted out of some parallel universe and tried to fuck with ours for some angsty reason.  Then we locked Evilboy’s ass in the Phantom Zone and – BANG – there we were.  I think I came back after that so I’m not sure why I know about that one, honestly.

“Then Darkseid actually took over the world and enslaved everybody with some sort of Omega thingy while I was in the middle of some weird-ass Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure across a fuckton of parallel universes.  That only ended when Batman shot Darkseid with some sort of bullet that he really should have kept the blueprints for, by the way, because I could have used that shit.  Oh yeah, that was just a major distraction so the speedy people could outrun fucking Death.  After that, Nightwing became Batman because Batman died but didn’t actually die because he was time-travelling – I don’t fucking know.

“Then Allen came back to life and fucked things up and Nightwing was a super spy and I was Robin for a really, really, short time for some ungodly reason that defies any basic common sense regarding physical training because we all became kung-fu masters in, like, a year because _why the fuck not_.  Then there was this thing with owls and Damian died and came back. Then there was that thingy with a bunch of universes smashing together and domes and shit and then you died,” Jason pointed at Timothy, “and now you’re back.  So, back to my original point, which universe are we in exactly?”

The room fell silent.  “Are you high?” asked Tim.

“I swear to God, I’m not high.”

“Are you sure?” asked Green Arrow, “Because it sounds like you’ve been hitting the angel dust a little hard there.”

“I’m. Not. High,” Jason gritted through his teeth.  “Seriously?  Am I the only one that remembers this?  Really?  Think people!”

The room fell silent as the members of the JLA and the Bat-Family began to wrack their brains.  Suddenly, Barry Allen said, “Oh, yeah.  I remember being dead.”

“Wait,” said Wonder Woman, “That second one.  Did it have a massive computer eye –”

“That watched everyone and tried to kill us all –” added Superman.

“Because Batman is a prick in every universe?” finished Green Lantern.

Batman glared at his Justice League teammates. 

“Yes,” said Jason, feeling vindicated.  “Yes there was, and yes he is.”

“If I had to hazard a guess, we’ve probably known that there was a reversal process since the last major encounter with Darkseid, but I don’t think we had the equipment to do it until now,” stated Wonder Woman.  “And I’m probably not going to sleep tonight because of you, so thanks for that.”

“Harass Zeus until he tells you who is responsible for this current mess, then give me his/her/its/their number,” replied Jason.  “I want to punch he/she/it/them in the face for giving us all PTSD.”

There were quiet murmurs of agreement and a few small smiles at that show of bravado.  Barda nodded.  “Yes, that’s when my husband and I figured it out.  The first attempts were unsuccessful.  We can help the Parademon break the mental conditioning – that has happened before – but Mr. Miracle and I are still working on reversing the physical effects.”

“So, if he has been changed, he may be stuck like this for the rest of his life.” Barbara muttered, staring at the floor.

“Not for certain.  We have one formula that may work, but we obviously have not had any test subjects.  We will do what we can, but it will take time,” answered Barda.

“How much time?” asked Batman.

“As long as necessary.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter's proving to be a doozy. Again, I don't have a set schedule for updating; mostly because I've been writing this whole thing out of order.


	7. Gang Aft Agley

Everything went to pot several days later. 

The attack was supposed to take place that Friday.  Batman was busy retrofitting one of the Bat-wings into a space-faring vessel.  It had been transported up to the Watchtower to avoid damaging it upon exit from the atmosphere.  It was agreed that Superman, Batman, Green Lantern, and Wonder Woman would lead the attack force of two ships.  One ship, piloted by Wonder Woman, would serve as a decoy to draw away Darkseid’s forces.  Red Hood would pilot and guard the extraction team's ship.  Red Robin had created a scanner that would help the team located Nightwing.  The team would sneak in, track him, snatch him, and run back.

That was the plan.

It should have been idiot proof.

As Robin’s fist collided with a Parademon, he reflected on Robert Burns’ poem, “To A Mouse.”  _The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men…_

Oddly fitting, considering that it was Robert Burns Day.

The exact cause of the Parademons’ return was something to speculate later, but it was almost like Darkseid wanted to get the jump on them.  Three ships from Apokalips had appeared in Earth’s atmosphere.  This time, the Justice League was prepared.  World-wide, superheroes were put on high alert.  The Watchtower and its inhabitants manned battle stations.  The Parademons crashed into one of the shuttle bays and made their way up through the lower levels of the floating space station. 

Robin and Batgirl soon found themselves on the front lines and trapped in one of the cafeterias.  Robin had resorted to lethal force to ensure his survival.  He noted, with some satisfaction, that Batgirl was not commenting on the dead figures at his feet. 

A Parademon snuck behind Batgirl and threw her into a wall.  There was a sickening crunch as Batgirl landed behind a serving counter.  Even Robin knew Batgirl’s leg was broken.  Robin dispatched the offending Parademon and went over to inspect her injury.

“Shit,” she growled.  “It’s the femur.  Son of a –”

A Parademon entered the room and locked eyes with them.  Robin stood, sword drawn.  The Parademon tilted his head, its weapon still hanging at its side.  It stepped toward Batgirl.  Robin clutched his sword tighter.  If he attacked too soon and missed, Batgirl would be left relatively vulnerable.  Robin knew that Batgirl could fight better than anyone else without the use of her legs.  It was also not something he wanted to leave to chance. 

The Parademon lowered its weapon.  It stood in the doorway. 

Thirty seconds passed.  Batgirl was trying her best not to pass out.  She was practicing controlled breathing.  “Can we get passed it?” she gritted through her teeth.  “We need to see if the broken bone nicked the vein.  We need to get out, now.  If I’m bleeding internally, I’m looking at five, maybe six minutes here.”

“It’s in the doorway, Batgirl,” muttered Robin.  “I don’t know how many of its friends are behind it.”

The Parademon still blocked the door.  Its mouth moved. 

“Bat,” the Parademon choked. 

Robin frowned.  He gripped his sword tighter.

“Bat,” the Parademon choked again.  It took a step closer to where Batgirl was on the floor, clutching her left leg.  Robin shifted into a defensive stance.  The Parademon made eye contact with Robin.  It frowned.

“Bird?” The Parademon cocked its head. 

Robin was becoming more annoyed with each passing second.  There was something seriously wrong with this Parademon. 

“Bird?”

“Sure, I am Bird.  See, ‘R’ stands for ‘Robin.’  Robin is a type of bird.” 

The Parademon glanced behind Robin towards Batgirl.  “Bat.”

“Yeah, she is Bat.  Bat is hurt.  Need to get Bat to doctor.  Very quickly.”

“What the hell are you doing?” hissed Batgirl. 

“I think this Parademon rides the short bus, otherwise it would have killed us already.  Maybe it recognizes people with airs of authority.  We can use that to our advantage.” 

The Parademon seemed to agree.  It left the doorway and slowly approached Batgirl.  Batgirl looked at it suspiciously.    

“Ok,” said Robin slowly.  “Give me your gun.”  The Parademon complied, and Robin made a quick brace for Batgirl’s femur using Short-Bus’s gun and another gun from a dead Parademon.  “Ok, you lift her.  We go to doctor’s now.  Understand.”  The Parademon seemed to nod.  “Good.  Let’s go!”

One of the infirmaries was on the other side of the level.  The trio made a mad dash down the hall.  They entered the infirmary, and Robin ordered Short-Bus (as he had begun to call the Parademon) to put Batgirl down onto the first available bed.  Robin’s first-aid skills were not up to snuff.  He would need to get an actual adult for this. 

“What… do… D-Day-Damian?”

Robin dropped the tray of bandages he was holding.  Batgirl’s jaw dropped in shock. 

“What did you just say?”

“What do, Damian?” the Parademon repeated, still speaking in a slow monotone. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Robin could see Batgirl mouthing, “Oh God, no.”

“Why are you calling me Damian?” Robin challenged.  He needed confirmation.  This had to be a trick, a cruel trick.

“My… bird.  My bird,” the Parademon responded as if that was the answer to everything.

It was not good enough for Damian.  He balled his hands into fists.  “Who the hell do you think you are?”

The Parademon frowned and stared at the floor as though deep in thought.  “G… Grr… Gray… son.”

No.

No.

No. No. No. No. No.

Robin tried to quell his panic, but none of his usual techniques were working.  Blood pounded in his ears.  The edges of his vision became fuzzy.  His breath was coming in shorter spurts.  He became aware of Batgirl’s voice yelling at him.  He snapped out of it. 

“Robin.  Doctor.”

“Right.  Right.  Um,” he glanced at the door.  Help would not arrive until the battle was complete.  The lower levels were relatively quiet.  If he were seeking control of the facility, he would go for the generators.  But since the generators were needed to keep the space station fully operational, destroying them would not be the best course of action.  Which meant that the Parademons were most likely heading toward the main observation deck. 

“You stay here,” Robin ordered.  “You watch her, and you make sure that none of the other Parademons advance beyond this point.  Kill them if you have to.”  The Parademon nodded. 

Robin took off, his head still spinning.  He knew that this was a possibility, but seeing the results first hand still shook him to his core.  But despite all odds, Grayson knew his name.  He remembered Damian.  Torn between horror and elation, Robin entered the elevator and punched the button for the observation deck. 

The battle was in its last few minutes when Robin exited the elevator.  A quick glance at the main computer screen indicated that the ships from Apokalips were slowly moving out of orbit.  Green Lantern – Hal Jordan from the looks of it – dispatched another demon by throwing it into the wall.  Superman had also resorted to using lethal force.  The bodies of dead Parademons littered the deck, while the live ones were in retreat. 

“Thing that gets me,” said the Flash as he threw some parademons into the shuttle bay for Green Lantern to pick up, “is that this is the second attack in about a year.  What the hell is going on on Apokalips?”

“Good question,” snarled Batman.

Robin ran up to his mentor and filled him in on Batgirl’s condition.  Before he could finish, Martin Manhunter phased through the floor.  Batman took off.  Robin ran after his mentor, but missed the elevator.

He arrived at the infirmary to find Batman glaring at him.  “Did you forget to mention something?” Batman snarled, jerking his thumb into Batgirl’s room.  The Parademon had Martian Manhunter by the throat. 

“Drop him!  Drop it!”  Robin noticed that he was using the same voice that he used when speaking to both Titus and Ace.  Remarkably, it worked.  Batman frowned. 

“What is that thing doing in Barbara’s room?  How could you leave her undefended?”

“If it was going to kill me, it would have done it already, Batman,” Batgirl’s speech was slightly slurred.  Martian Manhunter ducked past the Parademon and began to tend to Batgirl.

Even Martian Manhunter felt himself slightly shrinking at the glare that Batman leveled against his two partners.  Batgirl did bring up a good point, but J’onn knew it would be best to simply stay out of it. The Parademon continued to stand in the same place, seemingly oblivious to the increasing tension in the room.

“Ask him his name.”

“Don’t be stupid.  Parademons have designations, not names.”

Robin bristled.  He pushed past his father and stood in front of the Parademon.  “What’s my name?”

Batman tracked the Parademon, gripping one of his batarangs tighter.  These creatures had the ability to kill themselves with an explosion.  If this Parademon was a strange form of suicide bomber, Batman had to be prepared to get it out fast. 

Robin repeated.  “What’s my name?”

Batman’s eyes narrowed as the Parademon stared at his son.  It looked almost lost. Its mouth moved as it made a glutteral sound. 

“Duh… Day – mm… Day-me-en.”  

Even J’onn stopped what he was doing and turned around to stare at the Parademon.  Batman looked stuck between shock and fury. 

“What’s your name?” said Robin softly. 

“G… Grr… Gray… son,” the Parademon replied equally as softly.  It stared at Robin.  “Bird… home… come.. home… Bat.”

J’onn had never seen Batman shocked before.  To his credit, Batman recovered his wits long enough to order Red Robin to bring the genetic scanners down to this infirmary.  When Red Robin appeared, Batman ordered Red Robin to scan the Parademon. 

Red Robin frowned as the device beeped.  He smacked it.  He frowned.  He smacked it again.  He took out the batteries, rebooted it, and scanned the Parademon again.  “There is… that can’t… fuck what?”  Red Robin pulled another one out of his utility belt, but it had the same result.  “No fucking way.”

“Red,” growled Batman.

“Ok, you know what, you look at this and tell me what you see.”  Red Robin passed the scanners to Batman.  Batman used both the original and back-up scanners on the Parademon.  The longer he stared at the machines, the older and more careworn he looked.

The results were the same. 

Dick Grayson had come home.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm debating whether or not I want to make a companion piece to this chapter. It will be DARK, though. Thoughts?


	8. Brundlefly

A body floated in the surgical tank.  Its chest rose and fell with regulated breaths from its breathing tube.  IVs connected to the body at the clavicle and inner thighs as small surgical robotic arms slowly pealed way the chitinous armored layer protecting the soft flesh.  The pieces fell slowly through the surgical gel to the bottom of the tank where they would be removed and discarded as biohazards.  Monitors around the tank recorded heart rate, brain wave activity, blood pressure, oxygen intake. 

Batman tried to swallow his revulsion at the sight of it.  No, him.  His son.  His first child.  The one thing in his whole crusade for justice that had come out relatively right.

It was growing difficult to remember that creature was human underneath. 

But he was.  Deep inside this _thing_ was the soul of Dick Grayson. 

He was the strongest human Batman knew.  The only one Batman knew with the willpower to resist Darkseid’s mental conditioning.  Dick Grayson’s sheer force of will was a terrible thing to behold.  He would make a great Lantern, a great leader. 

Another piece of armor was peeled off of the shoulder.  Batman watched it drift to the bottom of the tank.  The flesh underneath was ashen gray and cracked like concrete.  Batman stared into its – his – face and tried to see any remaining features of his son. 

Creating a Parademon took minutes.  Reversing the process had already taken half a week, and they were still less than a quarter of the way through the process.  The first step was to remove the armored outer layer and expose the soft flesh.  Barda had described it as similar to a crab’s molting.  As this layer was being removed, IV fluids containing a reverse-engineered version of the Parademon mutagen would be injected into the body at several openings.  The altered mutagen contained samples of the victim’s original DNA.  It would spread rapidly through the body, rewriting the cells back into their original form.

Already, Batman could see portions of the flesh becoming more pale pink than gray.  He could see the skin beginning to smooth. 

It was a risky process.  Parademon blood was darker in color and Batman was not sure about its chemical composition.  It was important to get the genes rewritten as soon as possible.  To make the process more efficient, the blood was cleaned via dialysis.  As the cells passed through the modified dialysis machine, the Parademon mutagen was removed and reverse engineered mutagen was inserted into the cleaned blood.  The process would continue until there was no trace of the Parademon mutagen left in the host’s body.  The blood would be cleaned a final time through dialysis to remove the reverse engineered mutagen. 

Batman placed his hand on the glass of the tank.  The body bobbed slightly, suspended in the surgical gel. 

“It looks like it’s going smoothly,” said Superman. 

“For now.”

“A little optimism wouldn’t hurt at a time like this.”

“Won’t help either,” Batman ran his hand across the glass.  His jaw clenched minutely.

“This wasn’t your fault, Bruce.”

Batman grunted.

“It wasn’t.”

“Sure, Clark.”

Superman looked at the tank.  “He looks better.”

Batman grunted again.  “It’s going to take several more weeks to fully reverse the genetic mutations.  He’ll be on observation here in the Watchtower after he’s removed from the tank for at least two months after that.  He’ll probably need physical therapy to get back into shape, speech therapy to rebuild his ability to speak properly, and that’s not including the months – if not years – of psychological recovery.”  Batman glared Superman.  “I’ve seen the tapes, Clark.  There was no other viable alternative.  Alfred is a trained medic, and he was needed to care for Damian.  Tim’s too young, and Dick would never allow his younger siblings to put themselves in harm’s way.  Jason could have held them off, but he has the personality that Darkseid wants in a Parademon – angry, bordering on sadistic.  He would have succumbed to the mental conditioning.  Dick never forgave me for preventing Jason’s death, and did not want to Jason through that again.”  Batman looked into the face of his eldest.  “The fact remains:  this was a scenario that I should have prepared for but failed to do so.”

Superman stared at Batman and frowned.  He knew that look and knew that tone.  Batman would become obsessed with updating the security in his safehouses and would be focusing on preparing a contingency plan for the next time Darkseid attacked.  This quest would consume Batman, and his family would be shut out again.  “You pulled me back from Darkseid’s control once.  You and everyone else in the Justice League.  You’re not alone, Bruce.  And neither is he.”


	9. Homecoming

Richard came home in March.  

He spent a week in his room.  He only came out after Alfred stopped bringing food directly to him.  He sat at the kitchen island and ate whatever was put in front of him.  He did not complain about being fed his least favorite foods.  He did not ask for seconds, even though Alfred knew he wanted them.  After eating, Richard would return to his room. 

He did not speak for a month.  He barely made eye contact.

Alfred suspected that Richard was not sleeping, either.  Some of Alfred’s kitchen knives went missing and were later found in Richard’s room.  The bed was still made.  Alfred realized that Richard had either been squeezing himself into the space underneath it or sleeping on the floor. 

Some mornings, Alfred would wake to find all of the ingredients for breakfast left out on the kitchen counter.  Sometimes, they would even be pre-measured and placed in bowls for him if the recipe card was left out. 

Some nights Alfred could hear Richard patrolling the halls.  Alfred knew that Richard would often stop outside of his room.  On one occasion, Alfred saw Richard enter his room armed with a knife.  He sat with his back against the wall, facing Alfred’s bed.  Richard stared at the door and the windows before leaving as silently as he had entered.  Alfred, after reporting this development to Master Bruce, suspected that Richard did the same for Master Damian and Master Tim as well. 

Richard avoided Master Bruce’s room.  He avoided Bruce in general after Bruce had raised a hand against Damian and was savagely beaten by Dick in response.  Even Damian was shocked.

Alfred soon learned that Richard only slept when there was a trusted person in the room.  One day in late April, Alfred had been paying bills in the study when Richard had entered.  Richard sat on the couch nearest to the wall, watching the windows and doors.  His eyelids drooped.  Richard jolted himself awake.  Alfred watched Richard struggle to keep his eyes open before Alfred commented that he would keep watch.  That did the trick.  Richard slept while Alfred paid the bills.  If Master Bruce was displeased that it took Alfred eight hours to pay the bills, he failed to mention it.

Richard did bathe every day.  Alfred often heard the shower running for between ten to forty minutes at a stretch.  When the shower ran for an hour, Alfred went upstairs to check on Richard.  More often than not, Richard would be staring at nothing while sitting under the spray.  Alfred helped Richard shave since Master Bruce did not trust Richard with a razor – safety or straight.  Richard wore the clothes that Alfred laid out for him. 

It broke Alfred’s heart to see Richard in this state. 

Master Bruce was looking for a psychiatrist to help Richard, but the list was limited due to the family’s need for secrecy and Richard’s unique skill set.  Unfortunately, most of the psychiatrists that Bruce interacted with on a regular basis were villains and were out of the question.  Leslie Thompkins, who was Tim’s therapist and auxiliary Bat Family medic, was working with the U.N. in Syria.  Doctor Mid-Nite confessed that he was not overly skilled in psychology and did not feel confident prescribing any medications for an unofficially diagnosed patient.  He did stop by the house periodically to assess Richard’s physical condition.  Dr. Fate was not that kind of doctor, but his tower and telepathy would give Dick a safe space to recover.  Bruce was trying to get a hold of Fate, but Fate was fickle and worse than Bruce at answering calls. 

Dr. Mid-Nite had suggested that Dick be institutionalized.  The immediate and most convenient institution was Arkham Asylum, which was accustomed to dealing with psychotic supervillains and violent offenders.  Alfred had been in Arkham once and would fight tooth and nail to keep Richard away from that place.  It became more apparent with each passing day that a long-term psychiatrist was needed.  Richard had developed a scratching habit:  he scratched the corner of his jaw when he was unsure; he scratched his hand when he was nervous; and he scratched his chest when he was afraid or had done something that he deemed wrong. 

Richard’s birthday was a quiet affair, celebrated only by Alfred, Damian, and Barbara. 

By mid-May, Richard realized that he was not going to be physically punished for any mistakes he made.  He began speaking, slowly and softly.   When he couldn’t speak, he signed.  Cassandra helped him with speech therapy.  She used the same techniques that Barbara had used with her.  The two could be heard practicing in the drawing room together.  Damian drew pictures for Dick and would talk at him about school.  Tim, who was often busy working at Wayne Enterprises, worked with Doctor Mid-Nite to improve the reversal process and make it available for the public.

By the start of June, Dick had become the information broker for the Bat-Family.  Although being physically ready for duty, Batman ordered Dick to remain benched – no patrol, no interacting with the criminal underclasses.  With Barbara’s blessing, Dick took over the mantle of Oracle until he could prove that he was psychologically stable enough to return to patrol.

Jason had vacated the house and returned to his own ersatz family as soon as Dick came home.  Alfred still received occasional text messages from Jason asking about Dick’s progress. 

It was not back to normal.  But it was better than one more uniform in a memorial case.  Alfred could sleep better with that knowledge.


	10. Adult Supervision

So far, Girl’s Night was going successfully.  Dinah Lance had stopped by and joined Barbara, Cassandra, and Stephanie on their rare night off.  They got mani-pedis and facials at a spa in downtown Gotham.  They had a wonderful dinner at the new Japanese restaurant, Yum-Yamu.  Their activities had not been interrupted by any supervillain activity.  They had waved to Tim as he flew by on patrol.  They were driving back to Burnside to watch movies in their pajamas when the metallic tune of “Barbie Girl” erupted over the car’s speakers.

Barbara clicked the “answer” button on her steering wheel.  “Hello, Jason.”

“Gordon.  Is this line secure?” came Damian’s voice.

“Umm, I’m in my car with Black Canary, Spoiler, and Orphan.  So… keep it brief.”

There was a quick sound of a scuffle and loud protestations from Damian.  “Everything’s fine, sir,” came Jason’s voice.  “Don’t interrupt your date with Selena.  I’m sure he just misses you.  Have fun.  Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.  It’sashortlistseeyoulaterbye!”  The call ended.

“That was weird,” said Stephanie.

“Ok,” said Dinah, “I’m not a mom, but I don’t think everything’s ok.”

Barbara turned on her blinker and stopped at a red light.  “Jason’s getting relatively responsible.  Damian may be overreacting.”

There was a brief moment of silence.  “Why is Jason’s ring tone, ‘Barbie Girl?’” asked Cassandra.

“It’s an inside joke, Cassie.”

“Oh.”

The light turned green and they made the left turn onto Fifth Ave.  “Barbie Girl” rang out again.  Barbara sighed and answered the call.  “Hello?”

“Gordon.  Do you still have some of those tranquilizer darts that Father loaned you last week?” asked Damian.

Barbara frowned.  “Why?” she asked slowly.  In the background, Barbara could hear Jason yelling, “No, no!  We don’t – stop it!  Y’know what?  Go to sleep, go to sleep, go-the-fuck-to-sleep.” 

“We’re out of them here at the cave,” responded Damian calmly.  “Could you deliver some, post haste?”

“Who says ‘post haste’ anymore?” whispered Stephanie.

“Let me clarify, Damian,” Barbara said as the car stopped at another red light.  “Why do you need tranquilizers in the cave?”

“Do you remember that movie that you made me watch with the little blue dog-like creature in Hawaii?” Damian asked as Jason yelled, “Put it down.  Down!  Down!  On the ground!  On—shit!”  There was a loud crash.

Barbara frowned.  “Yes.”

“To quote one of the titular characters: ‘My dog found the chainsaw.’”

The light turned green.  The three passengers grabbed at any available hard surface as Barbara sped to the nearest interstate entrance ramp and onto the freeway.  It was truly a miracle that she did not get a ticket for reckless driving.

The time between getting onto the freeway and bursting into the cave was a blur in Barbara Gordon’s eidetic memory.  She did have the darts in her car since she was planning on dropping Cassandra and Stephanie off back at the Manor the next morning.  Her car sped through the ground entrance of the Cave and stopped with screeching brakes. 

Dinah Lance cursed loudly and creatively.

Jason Todd looked like he had gone twenty-five rounds with Doomsday.  Dick Grayson loomed over Jason.  He had bullet wounds in his left shoulder and left bicep.  Jason weakly tried to make the sign for “time out.” The girls got out of the car and stared.  Barbara ran to the trunk to get the darts and the gun. 

“Hiya, Babs,” Jason yelled.  “See?  I’ve got everything under con-TROL!” Dick Grayson picked up Jason Todd and threw him across the room into one of the Batmobiles with a resounding crash.  Damian was perched on top of the giant penny with his cell phone, clearly videotaping.

“This is under control?” asked Stephanie.  “What the shit, Jason?” she yelled. 

Cassandra went to move toward Jason.  “Do not engage,” ordered Barbara.  She picked up the dart gun and fired two shots.  One went wide and hit the back of the Batcomputer’s chair.  The other lodged into Dick Grayson’s left shoulder underneath one of the bullet wounds.  Dick turned and glared at her.

“Ah, shit.”  Barbara reloaded as Dick moved toward her car.  “Canary, hit it!”

Dinah Lance stepped out from behind the front passenger door.  She took a deep breath, then issued a sonic scream.  Everyone in the general vicinity went to grab their ears except for Barbara.  While Black Canary screamed, Barbara fired two more darts into Dick Grayson’s chest.  When Dinah finished her scream, Dick was unconscious. 

Panting, Barbara moved away from her car and put the dart gun in the armory.  She turned and glared at Jason.  “There better be a damn good reason why I shouldn’t call Bruce right now.  Talk.”

“Well,” Jason winced as he tried to rise from his position on the floor, “I really did not want to watch _Lilo and Stitch_ again, and I’m tired of Dick apathetically telling me that he’s fine when we all know he’s not.  I figured I’d go for the patented Daddy Bat’s tough love approach and beat some sense into him.”

“You really thought that would work,” Barbara said with a hint of disgust.

“It didn’t not work.  This is the most animated I’ve seen him in weeks.”

Barbara stared at Jason as though he were deranged.  “He was going to kill you.”

“Nah, I don’t think he was.”

“Yes, he was,” piped Damian.  “I have the video to prove it.”

“You’re gonna delete that!” yelled Jason.

“Can you come down from there so we can have a discussion like normal people?” asked Stephanie.  “Why are you up there, anyway?”

“Because, Brown, I listed to Father’s directions and did not engage in combat with someone who was trained on Apokalips.” Damian flipped off of the penny.  “I also realized that if I did not pose a threat to Grayson,” Damian continued on ground level, “he would not target me.  Hence why I asked for the darts.  Thank you for the assistance, Gordon.”

“I’m telling Batman,” said Dinah.

“NO!” the group chorused.

“Um… people…” said Cassandra.   They turned to look at Cassandra, who was pointing at a stirring Dick Grayson.

“Oh shit,” said Damian.

Fortunately, Dick was stirring in his stupor.  Nothing happened until Bruce got home.  Then it really hit the fan.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Bruce growled. Selena stood by his side looking slightly annoyed.  She was wearing a gown instead of her Catwoman suit.  

Jason would have raised his hands in a placating gesture, but he was fairly certain that both of his wrists had been dislocated.  Alfred, being the godsend, had popped them back into place but they were still sore.  “In my defense, isn’t that the usual way we solve things around here?”

Bruce glared. 

“It was my fault,” said Dick, softly.  “I took it too far.” He looked at Jason.  “I have to learn how to control myself again.  I’m not used to dealing with rage… Jason is.  I thought… maybe he could get me back to fighting weight and I could go out on patrol again.  He’s been covering for me as Nightwing and now that I’m back,” Dick shrugged.  “I know Jason has his own life.  It’s not fair for me to ask him to put his life on hold any more than he already has.”

“Did he give you that impression?” Bruce glared at Jason.

“No, but –”

“Okay,” Dinah whispered, “Babs, I think we should go.  Now.  Please.”  Barbara nodded and the girls walked swiftly to the car.  Selena watched them walk away wistfully. 

“You selfishly decided to spare with someone who has just gone through hell and did not expect anything bad to happen?” Bruce fumed at Jason.

Before Jason could protest, Dick moved between Bruce and Jason.  “He was trying to help me,” Dick stated.  “And he’s not wrong, either.  How many times have you knocked us both around when you thought we were being stupid?  Or when you felt like it?” he hissed.  “Jason was only trying to do what you would do.  If there is someone to blame for his failures, blame yourself.  Shouldn’t be hard for you.” 

Jaws dropped.  Dick stormed past Bruce and up the stairs with Damian at his heels.  Jason saluted Alfred, grabbed his coat, and followed his older brother.

“Well, that went well.” said Selena. 


	11. Simple Joys

The summer rain pattered on the back portico facing the extensive gardens of Wayne Manor.  It had been raining all day and was forecasted to continue through tomorrow.  Alfred stood at the kitchen island, chopping vegetables.  He was planning on making both ratatouille and beef bourguignon – one for the vegetarians like Damian and the other for the omnivores like Bruce.  He sighed.  Placing down the knife, he went to the kitchen sink to pick up a few more of the carrots that were still waiting to be washed and peeled.

On the back porch was a lone figure standing in the rain.  Alfred frowned.  Even though it was June, it was not a night to be outside.  He knew those on patrol would come back with their uniforms stuck to their skin, chilled to the bone, grumbling through every spoonful.  Everyone except Bruce, who did not seem to mind the rain.  The figure had on a t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants, but no shoes that Alfred could see.

He dropped the carrots, wiped his hands on a tea towel, and headed for the door.

Dick Grayson was standing, head tilted back, staring at the sky. 

“Master Dick, come inside before you catch a cold!”

“It’s raining, Alfred,” Dick replied disbelievingly. 

“Yes, I see that.  Do come inside.  Preferably now, please.”

“It’s raining.  It doesn’t rain like this on Apokalips.” He spread his arms out and opened his mouth to catch and savor a few drops.  “It hardly rains there.  It’s so hot, it’s stifling.  It’s worse than a Gotham rooftop in August.”  Dick tilted his head down, letting the rain flow down his neck.  Alfred glanced around for an umbrella and a towel.  There was a basket of laundry on the floor next to the kitchen table that – by some stroke of luck – had a few towels in it.

“When it does rain,” Dick continued his strange ritual, “it burns.  It eats at skin and burns holes in clothing.  You can’t drink water there.  It burns going down.  It burns worse coming back up.”  He turned slowly, letting the pooled water wash over his bare feet.

Dick did a handstand, placing his feet into the air and his hands in the puddle as Alfred pulled on a coat.  “Can’t bathe in it, either.  Leaves a film worse than bad soap.  But here,” the temperature had dropped as Dick walked forward on his hands.   “Doesn’t matter what the water temperature is.  Hot shower.  Cold shower.  It feels so good.”  He came down from the handstand and faced the door.  “I used to hate patrolling in the rain.  Cursed every minute of it.” He started laughing.

Alfred placed the towels on the kitchen table.  He popped open the umbrella and walked out towards his grandson.  Dick was laughing maniacally.  “I did it, didn’t I?  I made it.  I made it home!”

“Yes,” Alfred felt tears blooming in his eyes.  Dick was laughing and crying and tilting his head back to feel more of the cold rain on his face.  Alfred struggled to hold the umbrella and wrap his arms around his eldest grandchild.  Dick was shaking in the embrace.  From relief?  From joy?  From sorrow?  Alfred did not know. 

They stood there listening to the rain falling, letting it soak into their clothing.  “I’m making beef bourguignon and ratatouille.  I could use some help chopping vegetables.  It’s high time you learned how to cook something other than cold cereal without burning down a kitchen.”

“I like cereal,” muttered Dick into Alfred’s jacket. 

“Be that as it may, I’m sure that everyone else would be appreciative of our efforts to feed them.  And the rain is soaking into my coat, which is becoming quite uncomfortable for me.  I’m not as young as I used to be, you know.”

Dick sniffed and gave a sheepish smile.  “You’ll outlive all of us, Alfred.”

The pair began walking towards the Manor.  “I certainly hope not,” Alfred whispered. 


	12. Two Heroes Walk Into A Bar

Every major city in the United States had the one seedy bar where villains and their henchmen went for a night out.  Every superhero knew where it was, who was a frequent customer, and what nights the bar was the most crowded.  Most superheroes left that bar alone.  Everyone had a right to vent, as long as the property damage was minimal.

In Gotham, it was Josephine’s.  Located in the heart of Midtown, it was the third favorite gathering spot of the supervillains, part time crooks, henchmen, and gangsters that lived in the various corners of the city.  The Iceberg Lounge was the most popular by far, but it was too often frequented by The Bat.

Jason had been to Josephine’s with the Outlaws multiple times.  He would get drunk after a bad night.  Artemis would start a bar fight.  Bizarro would carry them both back home.   He liked Josephine’s.  It was almost cozy.

“This is a bad idea,” muttered Dick.  Clad in a Gotham Knights hoodie, Dick looked like a bored college kid.  The only indicator that Dick was a hero was the domino mask that he wore over his eyes.  It would be clear to all and sundry that Nightwing was in the establishment whether he liked it or not. 

“Oh come on,” said Jason as he sported his new Red Hood gear.  It was a relief to take a short break from covering for Nightwing.  Although, he secretly would miss the looks from some of the grateful citizens of Bludhaven.   “When’s the last time you interacted with humanity since our little Fourth of July jaunt to the beach?”

“I went to the gym.”

“You went to the gym on the second floor of the manor.”

“There were people there.”

“People on TV and family members don’t count in this case.”

Dick sighed as Jason opened the door.  Immediately, Dick spotted five villains that wanted to put him in the ground at some point in his vigilante career.  “I stand corrected, this is a really bad idea.”

“C’mon, Dickie-bird.  Don’t start no shit, won’t be no shit.”  Jason glided to the bar.  Dick followed reluctantly, pulling his hood over his face. 

“Never understood that phrase,” Dick muttered as a beer materialized in front of him.  Jason had ordered for both of them.  Dick preferred a good craft beer over the main brands.  He frowned after the first sip, then went in for another.  It was not as bad as he thought. 

“Yeah, me neither.  What bothers me is that it’s two pairs of double negatives.”  Jason was already a quarter of the way through his beer. 

Dick smirked.  “I knew you were secretly a grammar nerd.”  He took another sip, casually trying to avoid making eye contact with the Riddler who had sat down next to him.  Dick leaned in closer to Jason.  “Have you thought about going to college?”

“Can’t.  Dead.”  Jason shrugged.  “Complicates things since I can’t use my social.  You could go back if you’re thinking about giving up the,” Jason fumbled for a delicate way to phrase his next thought. 

“Masked life?”  Dick shrugged in return.  “Not really my style.  I tried it for a semester, but realized that I don’t have the attention span to sit there and take notes for over an hour.”

“That’s honestly rich, coming from the guy who spends his nights in front of a computer screen.”

“I’m keeping my eyes on almost,” Dick paused to do a mental head count, “five, maybe six, people at a time.  I get bored, I move on to another.  That’s not including the different calls I get from the Birds of Prey, the Justice League, and occasionally you for information.  I have no idea how BG was able to handle all of Oracle’s responsibilities.  I’m barely keeping up.”

“I don’t know,” Jason stared into his beer glass.  It was down to half.  “You seem to have improved now that you have something to do.  Making you Oracle while you get your shit together was not the worst idea we’ve had.”

“Better than the patented Bat-Daddy Tough Love Approach?”  Dick grinned and shook his head as Jason shuddered. 

“I’m never sparring against you ever again.  Ever.  My wrists sound like a party noisemaker when I rotate them.”  Jason signaled to the bartender for another round.  Dick was only halfway through his first beer.  Jason ordered two shots of tequila.  He downed them both.  “I mean, give someone a beat down like that once and you may find your workload down there in Bludhaven decrease exponentially.”

“Until you get someone who’s looking to prove themselves and wants to knock the strongest person in an area down a peg.”  Dick took another sip of his beer.  “I’d rather not have to kill someone to get a good night’s sleep ever again, if it’s all the same to you.”

Another two shots of tequila were in front of Jason.  He downed one and sucked the lime.  “Again?”

Dick shrugged.  “You’ve been there.  You know what it’s like.”

Jason downed the other shot.  He had been to Apokalips before, but usually for less than twenty-four hours.  It boggled his mind that people actually lived full-time on that hell hole.  “Not really.  But we can’t let your skills atrophy.  Admit it:  you secretly miss bashing some sucker’s face in.”

Dick opened his mouth to answer, only to watch as Jason’s face hit the bar.  A tall, bald, tattooed man stood behind Jason with a shit-eating grin on his face.  Jason rose and wiped the blood off of his nose.  “Scuse me,” snarled Jason, “while I settle this real quick.”  Jason punched the stranger into the tables.  The man’s friends joined in to the fray.  Dick turned and nursed his beer while Jason began fighting with five different guys.

A flash of red and black caught Dick’s eye.  He picked up his beer and casually walked around the fight toward the booth where Harley Quinn sat alone, drinking something brightly colored and overly sweet.  “Mind if I sit here?”

She frowned.  “What’s a guy like you doin’ in a dive like this?”

Dick jerked his thumb back towards Jason, who was pinned against a pool table on the opposite side of the room.  “My brother thought this would be therapeutic.”  He glanced over and watched Jason grab the cue ball off of the pool table and brain someone with it.  “I don’t think he’s cut out for counselling.  May I sit here?”

Harley Quinn shrugged.  When Dick didn’t sit down, she motioned for him to do so.  “Is there somethin’ I can do for you, or are you here to bust my balls?"

Dick reached into his hoodie and pulled out a manila envelope.  He slid it towards her.  Harley stared at it like it was a bomb.  “What’s this?”

Dick sipped his beer.  “It’s for you.  Open it.”

Frowning, Harley Quin opened the envelope and stuck her hand inside.  The first thing she pulled out was a money order with two more zeroes than Harley was accustomed to seeing.  Her eyes nearly popped out of her skull.  “Is that?” she “Is this legit?”

Dick shrugged.  “I heard about your little mutual aid society, the – What did you call it?  Pond Scum Society?  Consider it a donation.  Or give it to an animal shelter.  Buy another hyena.  I really don’t care.”

Harley cocked an eyebrow.  “You bat-boys ain’t this nice without expectin’ a little some’m-some’m in return.  What gives?”

“There’s no something-something.  I owed you for that thing with Challengers Mountain.”  Dick sipped his beer.  There was less than a quarter left.  “But I do have a request.”

“What kinda request?” asked Harley suspiciously. 

Dick sighed.  Jason had broken a pool cue and was using it like escrima sticks.  His form had improved since the last time Dick saw him fight with those.  “I, um… I need a third-party objective person I can call to, uh… talk me down on my bad days.”

Harley frowned.  “You are aware that I have tried to put you into the ground on more than one occasion and I can’t legally practice psychology thanks to my criminal record.”

“I know.  There’s something else in there for you too.”  Harley reached in to the envelope and found a blank New Jersey State Board of Psychological Examiners professional license.  Dick sipped his beer.  “I need a name, preferably something you can live with.  I can also get you one for New York if and when you decide to move back to Coney Island.”  He shrugged.  “It will help make your society a little more legit and you can go back to doing something that you’re good at.”

“You do know that my brain’s also a bag full of murderous cats, right?”

“I’ve been beating up criminals in spandex-covered Kevlar since I was eleven, my family is a bunch of adopted respawning ninjas with issues, and I spent nine months as a flying monkey on a planet that is – literally – the exemplification of Hell.  Your point is?”

Harley looked down at the blank license in her hands.  “You can do that, pretty boy?”

Dick smirked.  Jason was down to one guy.  He had picked up a chair.  “What can I say?  I’m more than just a pretty face and a nice ass,” he said sardonically.  “I’ll forward an advance of your usual session fee into the bank account of your choosing.  All I ask is that you field the occasional 2 a.m. phone call.”

“Don’t you have a big family for that?  Like, don’t you talk to the other Bats about this stuff?”

“Do you talk to your brothers about the details of your relationship with your ex?”  Harley hated to admit it:  he had a point.  Jason’s last opponent was staggering, and was ready to go down any minute.  “Think about it.  There’s a phone number in the envelope.  You have 48 hours to tell me if you’re interested.  After that, the number becomes useless and so does the forged license.  Whatever you decide, Dr. Quinzel, I’ll respect.”

Jason’s last opponent finally went down as Dick drained his beer.  “Why me?” asked Harley.

Dick stared at the empty glass pensively before rising to leave.  “You’ve been through hell too, Harley.  You know what it’s like.”  He picked up his glass and shuffled out of the booth’s seat.  “Let me know what you decide.”

Jason came up to Dick and put his arm around him.  “Thanks for the assist, asshole.”

“You had it under control.” 

Jason made eye contact with Harley Quinn.  “Quinn.”

“Hood.”

“We should head back.  Good night, Dr. Quinzel.”

Harley raised her hand as the pair walked away.  Waylon Jones, also known as Killer Croc, took Dick’s seat with a boilermaker.  “What was that all about?” he snarled. 

Harley went through the rest of the envelope.  In addition to the blank license, she found all the necessary paperwork to a house in the Everglades with Waylon listed as the owner.  “Nightwing said he owed us for Challenger’s Mountain.  This is for you.”  She passed over the deed.

Waylon’s eyes bulged.  “Why the fuck would he do that?  He hates our asses.  Either he knows something we don’t, or something’s up.  Bats ain’t that nice.”

“I got a sinking suspicion none of this was Batman’s idea.  It may be both for all I know.”

Waylon shrugged.  “I ain’t looking a gift horse in the mouth.  This’ll be a nice little summer place.  Get away from you-know-who for a few days.  Make the bitch come to me for once!” He laughed.  "Suck it, Waller!"

Harley played with the little umbrella that came with her drink.  Waylon was right.  Something wasn’t quite adding up.  “S’cuse me.”  She shuffled out of her seat, quietly palming the little slip of paper with the phone number.  She headed for the ladies room.  Once inside, she pulled out her cell phone and called.

“Hello,” came Nightwing’s voice on the other end.

“I’ll do it.  My fee is $80 an hour.”  It was actually $50, but she felt like he could afford a little more.

“Understood.  I’ll take care of it.  Thank you.”  He hung up and Harley stared at her phone. 

As part of Harley's brain started celebrating for having some decent income, another part could not shake the feeling that she was missing something. 


	13. Routine

The alarm blared, signaling the start to a new day.  Alfred fumbled in the gloom to turn of the blaring noise before hoisting himself out of bed.  It was the same routine by this point:  wake up at four a.m. and have breakfast ready by six.  Damian would be packed and ready to be flown to school by 7:15. Bruce and Tim would go off to Wayne Enterprises by eight.  Alfred would clear breakfast then begin working on the bills and other paperwork once he got back.  Alfred would begin housework at eleven, stopping to prepare lunch for Bruce and Tim around one.  After lunch was cleared, Alfred would continue with housework until three p.m. when he took tea.  He would then pick up Damian and have him home by 4:30. Bruce and Tim would return around 5 p.m.  Dinner preparations would begin around five with the meal served by 6:30. The boys would be dressed and ready to go on patrol by 7:45pm.  Alfred and Dick would monitor the cave until Bruce got back at midnight.  Wash.  Rinse.  Repeat. 

It was getting more difficult to keep up the demanding pace at his advanced age.  This time, the physicality of his work was getting to him.  Alfred did not mind it, but he did start fobbing some chores onto the boys.  Things like tiding up their own rooms, for example.  That included vacuuming.  Damian kept his room spartan.  Tim’s room looked like Bruce’s room did at his age before Bruce began training in earnest.  Alfred was sure there was some biohazardous waste under the bed that, once upon a time, used to be a slice of pizza.

Dick had started cleaning during his bouts of insomnia, dusting the higher places.  The chandeliers had never sparkled so brightly.  Alfred did not ask how Dick got up there; the thought nearly gave him a heart attack. 

Alfred entered the kitchen to find Dick seated at the island, already drinking a cup of coffee.  Dick saluted.  Dick looked healthier than he had back in March, but it was clear that he had not slept again.  The bags under his eyes were becoming more pronounced.

“Morning, Alfred.”

“Master Dick.”  Alfred frowned at the rows of small bowls lining the kitchen island.  The ingredients for coffee cake were already measured out.  Another sleepless night for Richard.  “Thank you for your preparations.  This will make things go more smoothly.”

Dick shrugged.  “It’s not like I don’t have the time.  I can see why Bruce only sleeps for an hour, maybe two, on some days.” 

Alfred sighed as he tied on his apron.  “Richard, I know it’s technically not my place, but… have you called the list of psychiatrists that Master Bruce gave you?”

“Yep.”

“And?”

Dick sucked his teeth.  “Yeah, I don’t think they’re going to work.  I had one session with each of them.  Shortly after I started describing an average night with the Batman, most of them seemed to think I was delusional.”  Dick sipped his coffee.  “I really don’t want to have to make up some bullshit story about military experience I don’t have to get the treatment I need.  It’s disrespectful to people who have actually served.  I’ve got a temporary stopgap in place, anyway.”

Alfred frowned as he mixed the dry ingredients together.  “When did you do that?”

“Shortly after Jason and I went to Josephine’s for his birthday.  I know that’s why he was hell bent on my going.  He won’t admit it, though.” 

Alfred began to mix the wet ingredients.  He cracked the eggs into the bowl, and saw Dick wincing slightly out of the corner of his eye.  “I would argue, Master Dick, that you have served in your own way.  You have been instrumental in saving the world from one crisis after another.”

Dick shrugged.  “Those were a team effort.  I did my part.”

“Spoken like a true soldier.”  Alfred muttered as he blended the wet and dry together into the batter.  Dick had even greased the pan, bless him.  After pouring the batter into the pan, Alfred popped it into the oven.  He poured his own cup of coffee and sat across from Dick.  “The only difference that I see between you and someone in the U.S. Army is that their service is officially sanctioned by the government.”

Dick found something interesting in the countertop.  Alfred poured cream into his coffee and took a sip.  “You know,” Alfred said after a pause, “you remind me of one of my fellow agents at S.I.S. when I was your age.  Good fellow.  Quiet chap.  Kept us all on task, but trusted us to do our part for Queen and Country.  Charismatic.  Kind.  I quite liked him.”

“I’ll take it he’s dead.”  Dick ran his finger though some spilled coffee on the countertop.  He made clover shapes and figure eights.  Dick had become blunter in recent months.

“Yes.”

“How?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to you.  Or you would not have brought it up.”  Dick looked at Alfred.  He cocked an eyebrow.  “You’re not as subtle as you used to be.”

Alfred sighed.  He picked up some apples and began to chop them to accompany the coffee cake.  He coughed.  “I was in Indonesia, during its war with Malaysia.”  Dick frowned.  “You’ve probably never heard of it here,” Alfred said sadly, “It happened at the same time as the Vietnam War.”  Dick nodded.  “The war was over by ’66.  I was there the whole time.

I was undercover as an air medic with the S.A.S., and we were sent to secure the border between Borneo and Indonesia.  Jungle fighting, mostly.  Very similar to what the young men in Vietnam saw.  We were kept on silence.  No perfumed toiletries.  All the rest. 

This particular young man – Bentley – and I were sent to observe and relay intelligence regarding Indonesian troop movements on the border.  We did our job well. 

“During one patrol,” Alfred cleared his throat.  He put the apples in a bowl and cut a lemon in half.  He began to squeeze some lemon juice over the apples.  “During one patrol, we had gotten separated from the other two in our patrol and were on our way back.  We thought there was no one behind us.  We were wrong. 

“Bentley stood to stretch and,” Alfred cleared his throat again, “he… shot several times in the chest.  Couldn’t call for air support since there was nowhere to land.  As S.I.S. agents, we were not technically supposed to be there anyway.  I did for him what I could with the best of my abilities, but,” Alfred exhaled and coughed, “nothing could be done.  Bentley was not the first, but I had such a good rapport with him… he was the closest thing to a friend I had there.”

Dick reached over the counter and took Alfred’s hand.  Alfred smiled.  “I suppose my point is that I understand, Richard.  When I first came to work here, I was often wandering the halls at odd hours of the morning.  My father – bless him – did not understand my odd behavior, but Mister Wayne did.”

“It never leaves, does it?”

Alfred shook his head.  He began cutting oranges for fresh juice.  “No.  No, it doesn’t.  But one learns to live with it.  By the time Master Bruce was born, I had learned how to cope.  As will you.  We do what we must, but we need not do it alone.”

The coffee cake was pulled out of the oven just as the door to Bruce’s room slammed.  Bruce stumbled into the kitchen first, followed by Tim. 

“Morning, Bruce.” said Dick.  Bruce grunted before motioning for coffee.  Tim was holding a séance with his cup, communing with some unknown coffee god that was hidden in the hot, murky depths.  Dick and Alfred exchanged conspiratorial looks before Alfred headed upstairs to formally invite Damian down for breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for putting up with my inconsistent updating schedule. If you see any errors, factual or otherwise, please let me know!


	14. 2 A.M.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is adult conversation in this chapter that references sexual content. Skip to where it mentions the fifth phone call if that makes you uncomfortable. If I flubbed up any of the facts, let me know. Not a psychiatrist and I don't play one on TV.

Harley Quinn knew exactly how much money she had in her bank account down to the last cent.  When an extra $1,600 showed up magically, she had to call the bank to double check.  And yep, it was legit.  Harley was never good with numbers, but she put two and two together to realize that a certain bat-boy had paid her for ten, two-hour long phone conversations in advance. 

Harley may be batshit crazy, but she wasn’t an idiot.  To her credit, she only blew $300 on a personal shopping spree within the first week.  Her new roller derby outfit was going to look awesome. 

The phone calls started a week later.  They were sporadic:  no set day, no set interval between calls.  Harley was concerned about Nightwing’s preplanning.  But money was money. 

The first call came during the fourth week of August at 2 a.m.  No introduction.  No courtesies.  Harley was awake watching an Abbott and Costello marathon online when Nightwing called.

“City Morgue,” Harley responded.    

“You awake?”

Harley adjusted her phone and paused her movies.  “I’m assumin’ this is my new patron?”

“Are you busy?”

“Not with anythin’ that can’t wait.  I’ve seen it a million times.  What ya up to?”

“ _Planet Earth_.  David Attenborough’s voice is oddly soothing.”  Nightwing sounded like he had gargled glass. 

“I always pegged you for a _Crimestoppers_ guy.”

“I’ve been told that making multiple calls to the show on the same day might end with me on the F.B.I. watchlist.  Especially if I’m right.  Which I usually am.”

“Ah, the humble brag.  God bless America.”  Harley got up off of her couch, temporarily dislodging her dachshund who looked offended at being moved from his warm and comfy human bed.  She padded over to the grubby kitchenette and poured a glass of water.  “And whoever told you that’s probably right, by the way.”

“She usually is.”  Harley wanted the gossip on this unnamed female, but Nightwing stopped talking.  There was a lull in the conversation as Harley searched her fridge for the last slice of cheesecake that she knew was buried in there somewhere.

“So, what’s got ya brain all hotwired this early in the mornin’?” Harley asked.

“Got any tips on how to sleep that don’t involve homicide?”

“Depends.  What have ya tried so far?”

“Everything.” Nightwing sounded exasperated.  “ASMR was annoying.  Lavender makes me sneeze.  Falling asleep during meditation means you’re not doing it right.  Already too flexible for yoga to be worth a damn.”  Harley’s mind filled with very dirty images as Nightwing went on.  “I’m not comfortable if the curtains are open.  I’m paranoid when they’re closed.  My bed’s too damn soft anymore.  Sleeping on the floor is starting to hurt my back.  I tried counting sheep, but that went south quickly.  I really don’t want to rely on drugs and also found out the hard way that I’m allergic to chamomile.”

“That can happen?”  Harley suddenly remembered that she had eaten the cheesecake for breakfast.  She grabbed a cupcake and went back to her couch. 

“Apparently.  Seeing as how I’m also allergic to chrysanthemum tea and the plants are related… should have known I guess.”

“I’m allergic to cinnamon, so I get it.  Damn.  Have ya tried… um… personal private time?”

There was an uncomfortable pause.  “Personal private time?” Nightwing repeated slowly. 

“Begins with an ‘M,’ rhymes with ‘situation.’  Floggin’ the one-eyed snake?  Skinnin’ the sausage?  Whippin’ the Wayne?  Jerkin’ the gherkin?  Please don’t make me spell this out for ya, anymore.”  There was a long, pregnant pause.  “It works for me, most days.  It’s less awkward than phone sex with strangers and it decreases the risk of an STD,” Harley insisted. 

“Um,” Nightwing began bashfully. 

“I mean, if ya bat-girlfriend ain’t available –”

“Batgirl and I aren’t dating, I’m not overly fond of one-night stands, and my ex dumped me about five months before I was… yeah.”  The response came too quickly and too curtly.  Harley realized that she had touched a nerve. 

“Yeah, I got some tool tryin’a hook up with me.  Ain’t about that life.  Tried t’ take on my ex to impress me, dumb bastard.  But anywho, pluckin’ the one string guitar usually helps push me into dreamland.  I make no guarantees, but ya asked what works and it works for me.  Alternatively, you could try journalin’.  Sometimes writin’ the thoughts down at least gets them outta your head enough t’ make you function.”

“Journaling.  Huh.  It’s better than the nothing I have right now.  Thank you.”  Nightwing hung up.  The call lasted less than twenty minutes.  Harley almost felt bad taking his money for the call.  Almost.  Not quite. 

Most of their calls went along those lines.  They talked about the weather.  The Gotham Knights game.  Dealing with annoying brothers – Harley had two and knew exactly how they could be.  In a strange way, it was nice knowing that there was someone else up at 2 a.m. struggling with the meaning of life. 

The first bad call – the fifth – came around Halloween.  Nightwing was off like a rocket as soon as Harley picked up the phone.  Part of her wished that she hadn’t. 

Nightwing sounded like he was close to hyperventilating as he launched into a story that sounded like something out of Mister J’s worst fantasies.  He told her about being forced to go into another part of the main city – Harley didn’t catch the name, but assumed it was on Apokalips – and kill the men, women, and children there.  He described in graphic detail what was done to people who were caught. 

Harley had done many horrible things to people, but she had gotten better about doing it to people who somewhat deserved it.  Corrupt CEOs, animal abusers, basically anyone who messed with the elderly, kids, and animals and their associates immediately went to the top of Harley’s Shit List.  Harley could see why someone with a strict moral code would have nightmares about senseless violence. 

Nightwing was finishing a story about a girl who had been tortured in an alley by other parademons.  “I shot her,” Nightwing whispered as he confessed, “I shot her because she was going to die anyway and I didn’t want to hear her scream anymore.  She’s dead and she won’t stop – God, she won’t stop.”

Harley laid on her bed and stared at the ceiling.  Nightwing was actively trying to control his breathing.  It clicked. 

“From what I’m hearing, it sounded like you didn’t have a choice in the matter.”

“There’s always a choice, Harley,” said Nightwing grimly.  “Always.”

“Ok, then.  What were your other options?”

“I could have taken her to a hospital.”

“So why didn’t you?”

Harley turned over onto her stomach as Nightwing’s breathing evened out.  “They probably would have used her for medical experimentation, anyway.  Or turned her into… something monstrous.  If I had been seen carrying her, I probably would have been killed.  I didn’t want to die there, Har – Dr. Quinzel.”

“What I’m hearing is:  you shot some poor kid who was going to die a horrible death so that kid _wouldn’t_ die a slow, painful, horrible death.  And yeah, you coulda taken her to a hospital, but then we wouldn’t be havin’ this conversation.”

“What right did I have to take her life?  I’m not God.  I don’t have the right to determine who lives and who should die.  And that’s what I did.”

“What other options were there?”  Harley flopped back onto her back.  “What option would have allowed you to avoid that decision?”

“I could have walked away.”

“So why didn’t you?”  Nightwing’s breathing had evened out.  _Curious_ , thought Harley.  _He’s in tune with other people’s emotions, but prefers fact and logic rather than trusting his own._

“They would have continued to torture her until she died, then would have played with the corpse.  No one deserves that.”

“So, what I’m hearing is:  you committed a mercy killing.”  Harley moved back onto her stomach and crawled under the covers.  “Nightwing, I’m not a priest.  Hell, I’m a piss poor excuse for a psychiatrist.  You really, really, should consult someone who’s not bat-shit crazy about how normal people handle stuff like this.  But lemme ask you this:  if that same situation presented itself in Gotham or Bludhaven – not Apokalips – would you do it again?”

“No.”

“What would you do instead?”

“I’d get her to a hospital, maybe stay there until her next of kin comes.  If I’m not desperately needed elsewhere, that is.  Then, I’d hunt the sons of bitches down and beat them within an inch of their life.  Then drop them off at the police station.”

“Why the difference?”

Nightwing went silent as he was thinking.  “We value mercy here.  Kindness.  Decency.  We punish those who harm, not those who help.”

Harley nodded, then remembered he couldn’t see her.  “Seems to me that you made the most compassionate choice available to you in a place where mercy doesn’t exist.  Again, I can’t offer absolution or forgiveness – not a priest – but I gotta admit that you’re a better person than I am.”

Nightwing sighed.  “I’m sorry for bothering you this late, Dr. Quinzel.  I should have asked if it was alright to talk.  Thank you.  So much.”

Harley frowned.  “You know, Batman’s got to be richer than the Queen of Sheba.  Can’t the Justice League get some sort of decent healthcare for you all?”

“They’re working on it.  They want to make a mental health clinic for heroes.  I think it’s going to be called the Sanctuary.”

“In my borderline professional opinion, it sounds like you’ve got PTSD.  When’s the last time you got a good night’s sleep since you got back?”

“Define a good night’s sleep,” muttered Nightwing wearily.

“Eight hours of uninterrupted, honest-to-God, dead to the world, sleep.”

Nightwing exhaled.  “Once.  Maybe twice.”

Harley puffed.  “What keeps you up at night?”

“I.. um,” Nightwing hesitated.

“I ain’t gonna tell Mistah J or Batman none of this.  Doctor-patient confidentiality.  I don’t have a lot of morals, but that’s one I’m for a hunnerd per-cent.”

“I’m surprised Joker hasn’t bought Darkseid a fruit basket at this point.” Nightwing swallowed.  “I… as a way of… thinning the herd… we – they – parademons – were encouraged to attack each other if we slept.  I usually didn’t get more then ten, maybe fifteen minutes at a stretch.  Once, I got four hours after I strangled another parademon with his own intestines because the trainer was impressed with my… work.  That… and what I told you earlier… there’s more, and most of it’s worse but… I can’t…. It’s dredging up other stuff from before.  Things I thought I buried.”  Nightwing sounded exhausted.   “I’m so tired.  I just want it to stop.”

“Listen, talk to your GP about your insomnia and see if they can prescribe some prazosin – P-R-A-Z-O-S-I-N.  It’s for high blood pressure, but it’s been shown to help aid sleep in PTSD patients.  Saw it in an article a few months ago.  If your GP has questions, the VA’s done some research on the off-label use of the drug.  Keep an eye on your blood pressure.  You may have dizziness, nausea, and headaches until you get the dosage adjusted to what you need.  I’d stay away from sleepin’ pills because you’ll develop a tolerance.

“When the Sanctuary opens, get a real psychiatrist, go through a couple sessions, and see if they can get you on some kind of SSRI or SNRI.  I can keep helpin’ you with the talk therapy and all, but you’ll need to talk to one of them for medication.  I’m not comfortable prescribing meds over the phone and I don’t want to push my luck with the forged license you gave me.  These meds’ll help take the edge off.  You have to take them every day, ok?  When you get prescribed, don’t stop if you feel better.  That’s the kiss’a death right there.” Harley snuggled close to her pillow.  Her dog nuzzled the covers and climbed right under.  “And don’t worry about callin’ me.  You’re paid up for a long time.  You will get through this, ok?  You’re not alone.  From what I’ve heard tell, you’re a well-loved guy.  Remember that.”

“Understood. For what it’s worth… you are a real psychiatrist, Dr. Quinzel.”

“Y’know, you’re also the only guy on Earth who calls me that.”

“What?”

“Dr. Quinzel.  You know you can call me Harley, right?”

“I know… but… you worked hard for that doctorate and I don’t want to seem… disrespectful.”

Harley smiled.  “You’re one weird cookie, Nightwing.  And I mean that in a nice way.  Need anything else, lemme know.”

“Again, thank you.” Nightwing hung up.  Harley flopped back onto her back and stared at the ceiling.  Her dachshund snuggled by her side and began farting in his sleep.  She stroked his fur.  This whole ordeal had forced her to reevaluate her opinion of the hero.  As much as Harley hated to admit it, Nightwing was actually a pretty decent guy.  True, the kid had spent most of his adolescence throwing her into Arkham, but he had also remembered her expertise and respected her for it.  Harley hated these types of moral conundrums.  No wonder heroes were so high strung. 

The sound of her dog’s breathing put Harley to sleep.       


	15. Thankful

The pair stood on top of one of the newest and tallest apartment buildings in the Burnside neighborhood of Gotham City.  Barbara glanced over at Dick in his Nightwing suit.  It was good to see him in it, if only for tonight.  He tilted his head back, savoring the breeze in his hair.  The weather had turned unseasonably colder for November.  Barbara was thankful for heated suits. 

“You’re it,” he slapped her and jumped off of the roof.  She watched him plummet towards the ground. 

“It’s on.”  Barbara jumped after Dick.  The fall was always exhilarating, but the ground was coming up fast.  She deployed her line. 

Dick, who had jumped first, still had not deployed his line. 

_Dick!_ She thought.  _Deploy the line!  Deploy the line!_

His line deployed.  She exhaled in relief. 

The pair swung over streets congested with Thanksgiving traffic before landing on the rooftop of a convenience store.  Their lines retracted, and Dick took off running across the roof.  Barbara followed him, laughing.  It had been years since they had played tag.

Dick jumped the alley to the adjacent building and began climbing down the fire escape.  “Cheater,” she screamed.  She jumped and caught the fire escape to catch him.  Dick jumped from the first-floor landing of the fire escape, tucking into a somersault when he hit the ground. 

They ran for ten city blocks, dodging pedestrians.  Dick was laughing across the comms.  Barbara overheard some of the pedestrians as she ran.

“Batgirl!  Hey, Batgirl!”

“Oh my god, is that Nightwing?”

“What’s he doing in Gotham?  I thought he was in Bludhaven now.”

One pedestrian, who realized what the pair were doing, yelled “Welcome back, Nightwing!  Get him Batgirl!  Go get your man!”

The pair continued racing.  Barbara’s comm beeped as she rounded a corner and saw Nightwing deploy his grapple.  The verbal alert indicated it was her father.  “Hi, Daddy.”

“Hey, Babby.  Listen:  change in plans.”

“Oh?” she inquired as she deployed her grapple to get onto the roof.  “What’s up?”

“Sarah had to head out of town this morning.  Looks like there was some sort of issue with a family member – I don’t remember which one, some kind of great-aunt or something.  I know this is last minute but seeing as how I can’t cook worth a damn, we’re going to be celebrating Thanksgiving a little differently this year.”

“Is Sarah ok? Does she need us there with her?”

“I asked and she said she’d be ok.  She had to fly back to Chicago.  I don’t envy her trying to get through the TSA on today of all days.  Are you ok?  Is this a bad time?”

“No,” Barbara panted once she got on the rooftop.  Dick noticed that she was no longer chasing him, and was starting to double back across two rooftops.  “I’m just out for a run.”  Dick looked concerned.  Barbara made the ASL sign for “father.”  Dick nodded and sat down on the ledge. 

“Well… I ran into Bruce Wayne – he was down at the precinct earlier, something about our health insurance, I don’t know – but he invited us to his place for dinner tomorrow night.  He said his family usually eats around – shit, when was it – No, Clarice, I don’t need you to show my where the – Tell Bullock to get his head out of his ass and actually start keeping track of his own damn files, Jesus Flipping Christ!  And tell Mulhoney from IA that the appointment’s been – No, no, he can’t come barging in here when he damn well pleases.  I’m off tomorrow so tell him to go to hell.  Politely.  Sorry, Babs, what was I saying?”

“Dinner tomorrow.  Stately Wayne Manor.  What time?”

“4 p.m.  Jesus Christ, makes me wonder what the hell they’re serving if we’re eating that earl – Motherfuck! What do you mean that’s not my password? Yes, Mulhoney, I’m very busy.  And if you’re so hell bent on investigating something, then maybe you can tell me why the fuck I’m still here working at 9 p.m. trying to find out why our people aren’t getting their goddamn overtime pay.  Riddle me that!  Look, Babs, I have to go.  But how about I pick you up – _tomorrow on my day off_ – at 3:15 for dinner?”

“Sounds good, Dad.  Love you and try not to commit murder.  I can’t afford bail.  Love you!”  She ended the call.  Dick stood and walked over. 

“What was that about?”

Barbara sighed.  “Looks like my dad and I are joining you and yours for Thanksgiving tomorrow.”

Dick blanched.  “You’re coming for dinner?”

“Is that going to be a problem?” Barbara said, calmly.

“Well,” Dick started picking at a scab on his jaw.  That nervous habit still hadn’t stopped.  “I mean… Damian’s going to be there.”

“My dad can handle bratty kids, Dick.  He survived my teen years, remember?”

“Jason’s going to be there, too.”

“Oh goodie!  It’ll be nice to catch up with –”

“And he’s bringing Artemis and Bizarro.”

Barbara blinked owlishly.  “Ok, that may take some awkward explaining.”

“And I’m pretty sure Diana may show up again this year.”

“She’s relatively norma—”

“Selena definitely will be there.”

Barbara sucked her teeth.  “Yeah, that one’s going to be really awkward to explain.”

“Which part:  that she’s a semi-reformed vigilante-thief or that she’s secretly married to Bruce?”

“You know that she broke it off, right?”

“Ok, fine,” Dick sighed.  “She’s _basically_ married to Bruce.  All she needs is a legally purchased ring and a prenup.”

“Cynical, much?”

Dick shrugged.  “Calling it as I see it.  And I have seen – and heard – a _lot_ in the time that I’ve been in the Manor.  Far, far, too much.  She’s too good for him, and he’s too dysfunctional to make it work full time with her.  Whatever.  To quote an old clown I used to know:  Not my circus, not my monkeys.”

“Come on, Nightwing,” Barbara rolled her eyes.  “What could go wrong?  Oh, and by the way,” she punched him in the shoulder.  “Tag.  You’re it.”

By this point in her vigilante career, Barbara Gordon should have known just how dangerous that innocuous phrase could be.  After Nightwing finished his two-hour patrol – the maximum length that Batman would allow until Nightwing had proven himself mentally stable – Batgirl stopped two armed robberies, escorted five drunk people home, dragged three hog-tied crying teenage Neo-Nazis to the police for attempting to vandalizing a mosque, and helped pull a family of four out of a car wreck.  Sliding into her apartment just before 2:30 a.m., Barbara started thinking more about the possibility of Thanksgiving dinner at Wayne Manor.

Barbara took off her cowl and threw it into her closet along with the rest of her Batgirl suit.  Padding out into the kitchen, Barbara noticed that Frankie had left her cereal bowl in the sink again.  Barbara shook her head.  She would deal with that conversation in the morning.  She whipped up her own bowl of cereal, ate it, rinsed off the bowl, and put it in the dishwasher.  Frankie’s bowl joined hers. 

Belly full, Barbara padded back into her room and its adjacent bathroom.  She turned on the spray and came to a startling conclusion as she stepped into the ceramic tub:  she had vastly underestimated the complexity of her life. 

For one, how does she explain her intimate relationship with the entire Wayne clan and extended kin?  As Barbara Gordon, she had only been to the Manor once – maybe twice – for police functions.  Every other time, she was out patrolling with Dick and had to come up with some excuse for bailing.

Secondly, eidetic memory or not, how would she explain how she knows the layout of the house?  She even has her own room in the Manor for the rare occasions when she needs to crash there after saving the world.  Again.  

Thirdly, if Dick was right, how she could plausibly explain Jason’s presence (since he was technically dead) or Selena’s presence (since she was technically a wanted criminal) without giving away some indication of her secret double life?  Artemis could be explained as a cousin of Wonder Woman, and Bruce Wayne was a financial backer of the Justice League.  No real complications there. 

Bizarro would be problematic.  From what she had heard of him, there was no way Bizarro could pass as normal even on his best of days. 

Finally, Dick.  Flopping onto her bed, Barbara heaved a massive sigh.  Her emotions regarding him was a constant thorn in her side.  A kink in her armor.  An error message in her life’s computer code.   They were definitely best friends, but there was always that undercurrent that both wanted more.  When Barbara was ready, Dick was dating Shawn.  When Dick came back into her life, she was dating Luke.   Both of those relationships had ultimately turned out to be disasters.  Then, Dick got abducted.  He had improved in the last eight months, but she knew he still needed time.  She also could not shake the feeling that he was hiding something.

Then again, it was almost a Bat Family tradition to be hiding something.

She drifted off to sleep before she realized.  Frankie popped her head into Barbara’s room around 10 a.m. the next morning and announced that she was heading to her parents’ house.  There was also something mentioned about Harley Quinn, Thanksgiving balloons, and blow darts.  Barbara grunted and went back to sleep. 

She woke up to a text message from Alfred at 12 p.m.  Alfred wanted to know if her family had any dietary restrictions and/or allergies.  Barbara reminded Alfred that her dad needs to watch his cholesterol, but that neither she nor her dad had any major allergies.  Alfred followed up his initial text with a thumbs up emoji.  Barbara smiled.  Alfred was the cool grandfather she always wanted.  She contemplated getting up, but her bed was toasty warm and the floor was not.  She stayed in bed. 

A text came from Dick at 2 p.m _.  Get up if you haven’t already.  Your dad is going to be at your house in an hour._

Barbara read the text.  She reread it.  She looked at her clock, then back at the text.  “Shit,” she yelled as she vaulted out of her bed.  Barbara ran to her bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth.  She ran a brush through her hair as she tried to dig through her clean laundry pile to find something that was not overly wrinkly.  Cursing the world, Barbara grabbed the first clean blouse she saw and plugged in her iron.  She grabbed the first clean pair of pants from the pile.  Barbara realized that they were black and the blouse was navy, cursed again, then went diving back into the pile.  She found a nice orange blouse.  It was actually Frankie’s and clashed horribly with her hair.  Cursing again, she found a yellow blouse that would go with the black pants.  She quickly ironed both articles of clothing and threw them on.  She unplugged her iron.

Makeup.  Shit.  She forgot to do her makeup.  Running into the bathroom, Barbara slapped on the fastest makeup job in the history of womanhood.  Barry Allen would have been proud of the speed and efficiency with which she put on her mascara, foundation, eye shadow, powder, and lipstick.  Popping her lips and giving herself a quick once-over, she grabbed her makeup and threw it into the first purse that she found. 

Shoes.  Shit.  Shoes.  Barbara decided to wear her tennis shoes because she no longer had any fucks to give about her appearance.  She had less than ten minutes to brew a cup of coffee and look like she had not been lazing about all morning.  Barbara slammed a reusable coffee pod into the machine and turned it on.  As the brew of life drizzled into the relatively clean mug, Barbara practiced some deep breathing. 

Her dad was ten minutes late. 

“Babs, I’m so sorry,” Commissioner Gordon looked contrite as he stood in her doorway.  “I got caught up in a work call and lost track of time.”

Barbara laughed.  If it sounded a little hysterical, her father didn’t notice.  She grabbed her coat and got into his car.

Traffic was not as bad as Barbara had thought it would be.  Her dad was grinding his teeth as out-of-town relatives tried to navigate Gotham’s grid.  They pulled up to Wayne Manor and parked in front of the front door. 

“No matter how many times I’ve been here,” Barbara heard her dad mutter, “this place always makes me feel about two inches tall.”

“Behave, Dad.”

Her dad rolled his eyes and adjusted his glasses.  “Fine.  If you insist.”

Alfred met them at the door and collected their coats.  The Gordons entered into a house in chaos.  Tim was running after Damian who was holding Tim’s cell phone hostage.  Duke waved, then went into the kitchen to help Alfred.  Cassie slid down the banister into the foyer and tackled Barbara into a hug.  They made their way to the drawing room where Dick was unconscious and curled on the couch.  Artemis sat on the window seat, reading a book and drinking something warm.  Bizarro was on the floor with Jason working on a jigsaw puzzle.  Cassie went over and began to observe. 

“Ah!  Commissioner!” yelled Bruce over the din of arguing.  “So glad you could make it!  I’m sorry for the state of my CHILDREN!” He bellowed at Tim and Damian who were wrestling on the Great Hall’s floor.  “WHO NEED TO RETURN STOLEN PROPERTY TO THEIR RIGHTFUL OWNERS, THIS INSTANT!”

Damian surrendered the phone.  Tim glared and stomped into the Gallery.  Damian scowled and went upstairs. 

“Babs,” whispered Gordon, “who’s that on the floor?”

“Jeremy, Bruce’s cousin.  Goes by Jay.  He works for the metahuman branch of the CIA.  Very hush-hush.  I’m surprised he was able to bring along some of his coworkers.”  Jim Gordon winked and nodded.  Barbara did not know how to interpret that. 

“Commissioner, interested in a pre-dinner tipple in the Study?”  Bruce smiled and gestured towards the Study.  Jim Gordon shrugged and followed Bruce. 

“So,” said Jason once Jim Gordon was out of earshot.  “CIA, metahuman division?”

“You try coming up with a cover story in thirty seconds, Jay,” snipped Barbara. 

“If I were a betting woman,” mused Artemis, “I’d say he already knows everything.”  She looked up from her book.  “I don’t think that older man is as stupid as you assume.”

“That older man is my father.” Barbara stated bluntly.  She sat down on the other side of the couch and began to stroke Dick’s hair.  He hummed in his sleep, leaning in to her touch.  “How long?”

Jason glanced at Dick while Cassie helped Bizarro find where his piece went.  “Since I got here, so about an hour.  But I know he’s awake now.  You’re fooling no one, Dick.”

Dick flipped off Jason.  Jason snorted.  “You wish.  I may even be down for that, considering how I’ve been going through a dry spell.”

Bizarro and Cassie frowned.  “Dry spell?” Cassie cocked her head as she tried to puzzle out the idiom. 

“No one cares about your sex life, Jason.”  Barbara continued to card her fingers through Dick’s hair.  He sighed contentedly at the contact. 

“Blue Him like you.  Who you?” Bizarro grunted. 

“That’s… Batgirl, Bizarro.  You can call her BG, ok?” Jason had finished one side of the puzzle and was sorting pieces by color. 

“Hello, Bee-Gee.  Me am Bizarro.  Me am friends with Red Him and Red Her.  Me am wanting Big Food Day now.”

“I like Thanksgiving too, Bizarro,” smiled Barbara.  A bell rang announcing the start of dinner.  Dick slowly sat up and stretched.  Jason, Bizarro, and Cassie left the puzzle on the floor.  Artemis found a piece of paper to use as a bookmark.  Barbara was impressed when she saw the title; it was Aristotle in Greek.  Everyone filed out of the different rooms into the Dining Room. 

Barbara’s jaw dropped when she entered.  The room was filled with lit candles.  The centerpiece of the table was a beautiful cornucopia decorated with flowers that came from the gardens on the estate including some of the prized roses.  Silver and china were placed at each table setting. 

And the spread!  The table had to be groaning under the weight of all the food that had been placed upon it.  Two different turkeys were placed at the table.  There were at least four different dishes of stuffing.  There were sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole (Sarah’s recipe, from the looks of it), corn pudding, steamed corn, spinach, two types of cranberry sauce (including the overly sweetened canned jelly kind), fresh garden salad, and several baskets of bread.  Cooling on one of the serving tables were four different pies and two different cakes.  Barbara knew that Alfred probably made homemade whipped cream and ice cream to go along with it. 

“Alfred,” Damian announced, “you have outdone yourself.”  Selina, who was carrying a bottle of wine, raised it in salute. 

Alfred blushed.  “I had assistance this year.  Master Dick helped with some of the more labor-intensive dishes.”

“Perks of being an insomniac,” Dick muttered, “I get to do prep work.”  He shrugged at Barbara’s concerned look.  “I have to get my meds adjusted,” he whispered.  “I’m going on Monday.”  Barbara nodded and rubbed his lower back. 

The group took their seats.  Artemis and Bizarro were baffled by the number of forks and spoons in front of them.  Jason and Cassie calmly explained the use of each one.  Bruce sat at the head of the table with Selina on his right and Alfred on his left.  Jim Gordon sat next to Alfred, but close enough that he and Bruce could carry on a conversation. 

“Before we begin,” announced Alfred, “there are two selections of turkey.  The one on the silver plate is traditional turkey – purchased from a local organic farm.  Not, I assure you, the one that lives on this estate.”  Damian visibly relaxed.  Jason looked disappointed.  “At the other end of the table,” Alfred motioned, “on the bronze plate is the vegetarian option.  Master Bruce shall carve this year, after which we shall all tuck in.”

“I’d, um,” Bruce coughed as he accepted the carving fork and knife from Alfred, “I’d like to say something before we all start stuffing our faces.”  Everyone looked at Tim, who had part of a roll in his mouth.  “I…” he sighed, “I am not a man of many words, but… I can’t tell you how thankful I am to have all of you here.  To have all of my family here.  After the year we’ve had… I am so proud of all that you have done, and all that you will continue to do for me and for each other.”  Bruce looked at Dick.  “And I’m proud that, no matter how impossible the circumstances, you all know how to find your way home.” 

“Amen!” yelled Duke.  Everyone raised their glasses in a toast.  Barbara noticed that Dick’s jaw was set.  She clasped his hand under the table and gave it a squeeze.  They drank.  Dick paused for a moment then drank from his cup. 

The group dove into the mountains of food.  Conversation flowed like the drinks, easy and plentiful.  At the foot of the table, Jason and Tim were arguing about the evening’s football game between the Pittsburgh Steelers and the Gotham Knights. Cassie and Bizarro were watching Jason and Tim’s conversation like it was free dinner theater.

“Roethlisberger can’t throw for shit,” Jason asserted.  “How many interceptions has the thrown this season, huh?  I’m telling you, it’s all about the D-line.  Pittsburgh’s defensive line is superior to the Gotham Knights, and that’s why they’re going to win.  They are going to shut the Knights’ offense down.”

“Bullshit,” countered Tim.  “Macklin’s got the highest pass completion percentage and we have the best running back and one of the top wide receivers in the NFL.  They have some of the best trick plays in the league, and Macklin reads the field like Cassie reads her opponents.  Football is a thinking man’s game.  Gotham.  All the way.”  Cassie almost looked offended, then realized that Tim was paying this particular player a compliment. 

“Stats are fine and all until Macklin’s face is eating dirt under a pile of Steel City bodies when he’s sacked.  Steel Curtain, baby.  Most sacks in the league to date.”

“They couldn’t hold their own against the fucking BROWNS!  Did you see how they almost botched the game in the 4th quarter?”

“That’s because Roethlisberger got concussed the week before and they were on their third string QB,” muttered Duke. 

“HE’S ALWAYS CONCUSSED!” Tim almost jumped over the table, but a look from Bruce shut him down.

Barbara laughed at Tim.  Damian began debating Aristotelian ethics with Artemis.  Dick asked Duke about his training with the Titans.  Duke launched into a story about their exploits, complete with dramatic hand gestures.  At the head of the table, Bruce and Jim Gordon were discussing police fundraising.  Selina listened politely.  She was on her third glass of wine. 

“I’m heading to the U.N. towards the end of February to ask them to raise more funding for the Justice League,” Bruce sipped his grape juice.  “Considering how many threats we have received from extraterrestrial forces, the more united that particular community is the better of we will be.”

“Agreed.  I’m not a fan of vigilantism, but every police commissioner I’ve spoken to agrees that we are way out of our league when it comes to Darkseid and his ilk.  By the way,” Jim took a large swig of his water.  “Do you think the Bat’s going to be out tonight?  It is Thanksgiving.  And he’s had it rough, what with Nightwing disappearing and all.  Heard he showed up in Gotham yesterday.  Fancy that.”

Selina choked on her wine.  Bruce thumped her back.  “I’m sure he’s just as happy as I am to have his own back,” Bruce noted. 

Jim cocked an eyebrow.  “I imagine he is,” Jim took another sip of his water.  “Still, bet it would be nice for Batman and his family to know that they can take at least one night off a year.  The GCPD can handle the usual amount of crazy.”

“How’s Harley Quinn, by the by,” remarked Bruce.  Dick stiffened at the mention of Harley Quinn.  Bruce frowned.  Barbara realized exactly what Dick had been hiding.

“In the wind, damn it.  Don’t know what Luthor did to piss her off, but I still can’t believe that she took out his Superman balloon with a blow dart.  I mean,” Jim Gordon ate another mouthful of salad before continuing, “it was kind of funny in its own way ‘cuz it hit the balloon right between the eyes.  Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy, but now I have him breathing down my neck demanding justice for his bruised ego and property damage.  Best case scenario, I can get her for vandalism.  No one was hurt, and the balloon drifted down into the middle of the street, it was so calm today.” He speared some green beans onto his fork.  “I’m going to deal with it on Friday.”

Bruce grunted.  Selina looked down the table and saw Dick’s slightly panicked expression.  “That seems pretty tame for her,” she muttered.  “Maybe she’s turning over a new leaf.”

“That’s the rumor, anyway.  Got some sort of gig down in Coney Island.  I’d hate to see her blow it,” Jim finished off his green beans.

Dick and Duke rose and started to clear the table.  Alfred brought in clean plates to begin the dessert course.  Barbara was right; there was homemade ice cream to go along with the cake. 

Full of food, the younger members of the Bat Family waited until Jim Gordon went to the bathroom to ask the question of the night. 

“So,” said Duke, “when we patrolling?”

Bruce had another forkful of chocolate pie and gulp of black coffee.  “Patrol is voluntary tonight.  You’ve all earned the night off.”

Duke punched the air.  Damian tried not to look too pleased.  Tim and Jason gave the thumbs up, and immediately placed bets on who was going to win the night’s football game.  Barbara grinned.  It would be nice to spend a night with her dad and her semi-adopted family.

After dessert, the group split into different activities.  Selina kissed Bruce and headed home.  Damian and Artemis went into the Drawing room to draw and read.  Everyone else took their drinks and went to the Living Room to watch the Gotham Knights game.  Tim and Duke ran upstairs to put on their Gotham Knights jerseys. 

Dick and Barbara sat on the loveseat.  Commissioner Gordon took one of the Lazy-boys while Bruce took the other.  The rest of the couch was filled with Bizarro, Jason, Tim, and Duke.  Cassie sat on the floor. As the game progressed, Jason patiently explained the game to Bizarro while taking pot shots at Tim and Duke. 

“Never pegged you for a Steelers fan, Jay,” said Dick.

“Nah, I’m a Patriots fan,” grinned Jason.

Tim and Duke both looked appalled.  “Get out of my house.” Duke gritted.

“Begone, Satan!” yelled Tim as he put his hand on Jason’s forehead.  “The devil has no power here! Come back to the light, Jay!  You may yet be saved by the power of Jerry Macklin’s holy hand grenade!”

Dick roared with laughter.  Bruce gripped the bridge of his nose and sighed while Jim Gordon shook his head and chuckled. 

The score was tied at halftime.  Tim and Duke leapt out of their seats, yelled “pickle juice,” and sprinted off towards the kitchen.  Barbara looked at Dick.

“Don’t ask,” he said shaking his head.  “It’s a weird superstitious thing that they do.”

Jim Gordon shrugged.  “No weirder than half the crap I used to do when I played high school ball.”  Barbara both wanted to know more and did not want to know more.  “Apparently, pickle juice is really good for muscle cramps.  No idea why.”

“’Sup, bitches,” yelled Stephanie as she entered the room eating some pumpkin pie.  “What’d I miss?”

“Hey, Steph,” Dick waved, “How’s Harper?”

“She’s Harper.  Had dinner with some of her friends.  A Friends-giving.  Kind of fun, but was wondering why I—” Stephanie realized that Commissioner Gordon was in the room.  “I had not seen any lights on at Cassie’s place.  So, I figured the party wasn’t over here.”  She plopped down on the floor with Cassie.  Titus, being the opportunistic animal, tried to eat the crust off of her pie before he was shooed away.  “Plus, Alfred makes, like, the most bomb-diggity pies.  I’d be stupid to miss it.”

Tim and Duke each came back with a small glass filled with pickle juice.  “Did we miss kickoff?” Duke asked as he sat down.

“Nope,” said Dick.  “Just commercials.”

“Sweet.” 

When kickoff came, the Gotham Knights were set to receive.  As the kicker went to kick the ball and begin the second half, Tim and Duke started chugging their pickle juice.  As soon as one of the Knights caught the ball, they slammed their empty glasses upside down on the coffee table.  Both boys yelled “Whoosh” when their glasses hit the table.

Jason shook his head.  “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Dude,” Duke leaned forward to get a better look at the TV.  “My dad and I used to do that every half time of every Gotham Knights game.  I’m telling you, man, it helps.”

“I know you both are smart enough to know that correlation does not equal causation.”

“Hey,” Tim raised his hands defensively, “That’s what I thought.  Then when Duke and I started doing it together, the Knights came back almost every single game.  I don’t know how this works, but you have to have two people doing it.”

“Exactly!” concurred Duke.  “See, when I was in the foster home, it was just me doing it.  Our record last year was 4-12.  This year, we’ve drastically improved.  I’m convinced it’s because you need twice the faith.”

Jason blinked.  “You guys are fucking weird.”

“Pot, kettle.  And BOOM!” Duke exclaimed as Ben Roethlisberger of the Pittsburgh Steelers was sacked by Quantravious Smith of the Gotham Knights.

Jim Gordon winced.  “That’s going to hurt.”

“I didn’t know you were a quarterback, Jim,” said Bruce.

Jim Gordon shook his head.  “Kicker.  But I also had to play center on occasion.”

By the start of the fourth quarter, Dick was fighting to stay away.  Barbara placed her arm around his shoulder and guided his head toward her.  Within minutes, he was out.  Bruce got up during a commercial break and put a blanket over Dick’s shoulders and Barbara’s lap. 

It was miraculous that anyone could sleep through the racket that Tim, Duke, and Jason were creating on the sofa.  Antonio Brown of the Pittsburgh Steelers was making a beeline for the endzone. 

“Go, Baby!” yelled Jason.  “Go-go-go-go!” he chanted.

“Get him!  Get him!  Fucking get him!  Jesus fucking Christ, what’s with this olé bullshit!  Get him!” screamed Tim.    

“Come on, baby!  Come on, baby! Tackle!  Tackle!” chanted Duke. 

It was all for naught.  The game was close, with the Gotham Knights up 28-27.  There was less than thirty seconds left on the clock.  The Steelers were lined up at the endzone.

“Going for the two-point conversion!” yelled Duke.

They got it.  The Steelers won, 29-28. Duke collapsed onto the couch, releasing the longest “Fuck” in human history.  Tim was doing his best impersonation of Anakin Skywalker at the end of Star Wars:  Episode III.  Jason was laughing his ass off.  Bizzaro and Cassie clapped, unsure what to do now that the game was over.  Damian and Artemis wandered into the room to discover the source of the commotion then left the room again by mutual agreement.  Stephanie shook her head, waved to Bruce, and bade everyone a good night. 

Dick was startled by Tim’s screaming and looked around in a panic.  He almost knocked Babs off the couch as he flailed awake.  Upon seeing that his brothers were alright, Dick grinned apologetically at Babs.  Barbara rolled her eyes at the younger boys’ antics. 

Jim Gordon sighed, placing his hands on his knees.  “Whelp, that was a good game.  An excellent match between two teams.  I’m heading out.  Thanks for a wonderful evening, Bruce.  You going to hang here tonight, Babs?”  He looked at Dick, who blushed. 

“For a little while.  If that’s ok?” said Babs sheepishly. 

Commissioner Gordon walked over and kissed his daughter.  “Be a gentleman, Grayson,” he muttered.  “I know where you live.  Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”  Dick nodded.  Commissioner Gordon gave Barbara a hug and left. 

One by one, the guests began saying their goodbyes.  Jason, Artemis, and Bizarro left by the back door.  Jason and Bruce gave each other a stare and a nod.  Alfred came out of the kitchen to see if anyone needed anything.  Dick offered to help with the dishes, but was told to remain seated by three members of his family.  Duke and Cassie went to help instead. 

The TV went back to its normal programming.  A cop procedural played in the background as Damian sat on the couch with his sketchbook.  Tim went upstairs, moping all the way.  Barbara looked at Dick as the lead officer on the show found some key piece of evidence.  He was barely keeping his eyes open.

“Hey,” she said softly, “let’s get you to bed.”

Dick’s brow furrowed.  “I’m too tired to interpret that.”

Barbara rolled her eyes.  “Literally.  We’re going upstairs, and you’re crashing in your bed tonight.”  She hoisted Dick off of the couch and began walking him upstairs.  He was clearly too tired to argue. 

“Still not sleeping?” she asked as they ascended the grand staircase towards the second floor of the Manor.

“Yes and no.  I can’t seem to get on a normal schedule or actually comfortable enough to fall asleep.  Once I’m asleep, I’m fine for the most part.  But if I get up to quickly, I hit the ground.”  Dick rubbed his neck as they reached the landing and walked towards his room.  “Like I said earlier:  I have to get them adjusted again.”

“I’m glad you’re taking care of yourself,” Barbara said.  “We’ve been worried.  I don’t know what we’d do if we lost you again.”

Dick shrugged.  “The same thing we always do, I guess.”

“Which is?”

“Cheat death.  Find a Lazarus Pit.  Let’s face it, the people we know don’t exactly stay dead for long.”

“Creepy, now that you mention it.”  Barbara waited while Dick opened the door to his room.  She stood in the doorway as he casually threw off his shirt and started putting on his pajamas.  Barbara glanced away as Dick put on his pajama bottoms.  He turned and looked at her.

“Are you planning on staying the night?”

She shrugged.  “Probably easier at this point.  Really don’t want to try and fight the possible drunk drivers.”

“Do you… um, need to borrow some night clothes?”

“Do you mind?”

“No.”  He tossed an extra pair of pajama pants and a t-shirt to her.  She went into his bathroom to change.  She washed her face and took a spare toothbrush from under the sink.  “I’m borrowing a spare toothbrush,” she shouted through the closed door.  She didn’t hear his answer as she brushed and rinsed.  She folded her clothes and carried them out of the bathroom. 

They stared at each other until Dick blurted, “Will you sleep with me?”

Barbara’s eyebrows shot up as Dick blushed.  He scratched the back of his hand.  “Not… not like… that… I mean, literally.  Sleep in my bed.  Just sleep.  There’s plenty of room and I promise I won’t get handsy.  You’re already here and I just… don’t… want to be alone.  Tonight.  Idon’tknowwhy.”

Barbara looked at him.  “I mean,” he continued, “it’s… never mind.  I shouldn’t’ve asked.”

Barbara’s brain rebooted.  “Are you… are you sure?  You’d be ok with that?”

“I mean… if you are.  Duh.  You don’t have to!  At all!  I just… like… being around you.”  He stopped scratching his hand and started rubbing his neck.  “Or, you can take the bed and I can take the floor.  Save Alfred from trying to make up a guest room and all.  I know he’s probably still waist deep in pots and stuff.”  He grimaced.  “I’m cocking this all up, aren’t I?”

“No,” Barbara was still processing where the conversation had gone.  “I-I comprehend everything that you’re telling me.  I’m just… surprised.  That’s all.”  Once her brain caught up, she replied, “Ok.  Sure.  I’m getting tired and I don’t want to bother Alfred.” 

He climbed into the side near the doors while she took the side near the windows.  Dick turned off the lights and they both laid under the covers.  It was odd, being able to hear him breathe.  In a strange way, it was rather assuring. 

She was almost fully asleep when he began to whisper.

“I remembered you,” he confessed.  “I don’t know how.  Somewhere, in my head, you were there.  And you kept me sane.  Kept me… from losing hope.  I couldn’t remember your name, but… I knew I had to get back to you.  That you were important.  It doesn’t matter what happens – between us, anyway.  I’ll always come back to you, if you want me there.”  He rolled over, his breathing evening out. 

She rolled over to look at his back.  His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm.   She placed a hand between his shoulder blades and fell asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience! I'm still struggling with a few chapters, and I don't have as much free time to write now that my work has picked up. I hope you enjoy!


	16. Dead Boys Club

Jason looked at his phone, looked at the sign, looked at his phone, and shrugged.  This was not the first time that he had received a cryptic text message from the youngest bat.  It was the first time that the coordinates had led to one of Damian’s favorite off-duty haunts.

Stepping into the arcade, Jason’s ears were assaulted by a cacophony of bells, explosions, gunshots, whistles, and carnival music.  He wove his way through the different video game machines.  It did not take Jason long to spot Damian in front of the newest instillation of the Cheese Viking series.

Damian was conquering his way through the Cheddarlands.  “Todd,” he muttered in way of greeting.

“Brat.”  Damian continued to smash buttons as Jason shifted from one foot to the other.  “You rang?”

“You have not checked in since Thanksgiving,” Damian remarked as he took out another Gorgonzola Troll.

Jason rolled his eyes.  “You know where most of my safe houses are, Tator Tot.  I don’t see why this little rendezvous of ours needs to be a more than twice annually thing.”

Damian scoffed.  He successfully completed the level and progressed to the next one.  Jason watched Damian’s progress on the game.

“Is there a reason you called me?”

Damian continued to smash buttons.  “Grayson moved out.”

“When?”

“December 1st.”

Jason did some mental math.  Dick had been out of the house for about a week.  “Good for him.  I knew it would only be a matter of time before he and Bruce got on each other’s nerves.”

Damian shrugged as his avatar prepared to take on a Fondue Dragon.  “I’m against the idea.”

“Dick’s an adult.  He can handle himself.”

“That’s debatable.”

“He’s fine.  Other than the whole, like, sleepless nights thing – which is totally not unique to him, by the way.  I think he’s improved in strides.”

“Again, debatable.”  Damian’s avatar had taken severe damage, and was in danger of losing a life. 

“Ok, I’ll bite.  _Why_ did Dick move out?”

“He and Father had a disagreement.” 

Jason translated “disagreement” to mean “massive nearly-coming-to-blows argument.”  Jason scoffed, “Over what?”

Damian’s character lost a life.  He put in another fifty cents to continue playing.  The Fondue Dragon roared back to full health and Damian’s avatar took its battle position.  “Father believes that Dick should go into a full-time treatment center.”  Damian began his assault.

“Like Sanctuary?”  Jason frowned.  Damian started.  “Yeah, kid, I know all about that place.  It’s really not as secret as people think.”

Damian quickly glared at Jason before continuing with his game.  “Probably.  I don’t understand why Grayson is so hesitant to go there.  I’ve been there.  It was surprisingly beneficial.  That’s its purpose:  to help us heal.”

“Shoulda built it years ago,” muttered Jason bitterly. 

“Yet, Grayson refuses.  He was rather adamant, and instead decided that he should return to Bludhaven.”

“I’m assuming that the words ‘involuntarily committed’ and ‘Arkham’ may have also left the mouth of Señor Guano.”

Damian shrugged.  “Not Father’s finest moment.  Grayson’s will may be strong, but there is no shame in making a strategic retreat in order to regroup.”

“Only you would frame getting psychiatric help in military terms.”

Damian vanquished the Fondue Dragon and advanced to the Brie Volcano level.  “Apt for warriors such as we.  Considering that Grayson has been in this life longer than both you and me, I am growing increasingly concerned about his mental well-being.”

“I’ll reiterate:  Dick can take care of himself.”

Damian scoffed.  “Tt.  This isn’t recuperating from some encounter with a cosplay freak gone wrong or sleeping off Crane’s fear gas.  I had hoped, Todd, that you of all people would understand the enormity of Grayson’s situation.”  Damian had successfully defeated his previous high score.  It took him a few seconds to type in his initials.  “Apparently, I was wrong.  Good day.”  He brushed past Todd and stormed out of the arcade into the cold evening. 

Normally, Jason would brush off Damian’s curt remarks, but there was some subtext that was not processing in Jason’s brain.  He shrugged it off and went out into the cold December night.  The rest of his night was fairly uneventful.  He caught up with some of the hookers near Crime Alley.  He stopped a couple assaults.  He ate a gas station burrito.  By the time his shift wrapped up at 2 a.m., Jason was exhausted.  He went to one of his safe houses and collapsed into bed.

The nightmare was the same:  the sudden sensation of waking up, disoriented and alone, wracked with pain and fear.  Thrashing against some tide of forces beyond his control.  The feeling of his skin tingling as if on fire, his blood pounding in his ears, unable to breath properly.  Emerging from the slime-like water to unfamiliar and hidden faces, but seeing only the Joker surrounding him, chasing him.  No matter how fast he ran, he felt constrained by the remnants of whatever cloth they had used to bind him.  But he could never run fast enough to escape the maniacal laughter that rang in his ears.

Jason woke with a start at 6 a.m.  “Holy shit,” he gaped.  “Ho-ly shit,” he groaned as he came to his epiphany. 

It took fifteen minutes to make the drive from his safehouse to Dick’s apartment in Bludhaven.  Jason ran to the front door, past a morning delivery man, and up to Dick’s front door.  He banged once.  Twice.  Repeatedly.  He stopped only after hearing a disgruntled voice bellowing from behind the door.

“Alright, alright!  I’m coming!  I’m coming!  Jesus wept!”  The last statement was accompanied by more disgruntled mutterings in a language that Jason was fairly certain was something Eastern European.  The door chain clattered as Dick unlocked his front door.  Dick was soaking wet and wearing only a towel for modesty. 

“I had an epiphany,” stated Jason numbly.

“Good morning to you, too,” said Dick dryly.  “Oh-ah!” Dick stiffened as Jason leaned in and wrapped him in a bear hug.  One hand held the towel at his waist while the other came and awkwardly patted Jason on the back.  “Um… ah,” Dick glanced around.  “Would you… are… coffee?”  He began to maneuver a still clinging Jason into his apartment.  Dick deposited Jason onto the couch and padded into the kitchen to the coffee pot.  He collected two mugs and placed one of them in front of Jason.  

“Jesus,” Jason began, “It didn’t register.  Holy God in heaven, I didn’t… goddamn.”

Dick blinked.  “Are you ok?” he said with a frown.  “Are you tweaking?  Because if you are, I have nothing to help you and I will beat the shit out of you because I know you know better.”

“What?” Jason started startled.  “No, I’m not tweaking.  Why would you think I’m tweaking?  Why does everyone think I’m the one most likely to do drugs?”

“Because it’s seven o’clock in the morning and you were banging on my door like your house was on fire.”

Jason blinked owlishly.  “Ok, fair enough.”

“Good.  Ah – if you don’t mind – I’m going to be back in a minute,” Dick pointed towards his bedroom, “because this seems like a conversation that requires pants.”  Jason blushed, realizing that Dick was clad only in a towel.  Dick trotted back to the bedroom and emerged wearing a pair of flannel pajama bottoms and a ratty t-shirt.  He sat down on the couch next to Jason and started drinking his own coffee.

Jason slumped over and put his head on Dick’s shoulder.  Dick frowned.  “What’s gotten into you, Little Wing?”

“Are you ok?”

“What do you mean?”

“What prompted the move back to Bludhaven?  It seems kind of sudden.”

“Just needed my own space again, why?”

“That’s not how Damian put it.”

Dick sighed.  “Figures he’d go to you first.”  He slumped against the couch cushions.

“Not much gets past that kid, I’ll tell ya.”

Dick continued to drink his coffee as the clock ticked.  “Bruce and I had a disagreement.”

“You say disagreement.  I hear massive fight.”

Dick hummed.  “Pretty much.” 

“About?” Jason took a swig of his coffee and sat up. 

“Meds.”

“I thought you were on meds.”

“I was.”

Jason stared at Dick, mouth agape.  “You’re off your meds?”

“I’m fine.  It’s not like they were really working that well, anyway.”

“That’s not how meds work, Dick.  You’ve only been on them for – what? – two months?”  Jason put his coffee cup back on the table.  “I’m no expert, but from what I remember from my little stint in the happy house –”

Dick looked confused.  “You’ve never been in Arkham.”

“Uh, yeah, I have.  And I get it.  I do.  Arkham isn’t fun, but the good doctors – and there are some there – can genuinely help.  You’ve got to take your meds every day.  It’s, like, the first thing they teach you.”

Dick rolled his eyes.  “This isn’t my first rodeo.  I’m over it.  I’m fine.  I’m getting my life – my actual life – back together.  I’m going back to my job.  I’m in my apartment.  Hell, I’m even still even taking on Oracle duty until a more suitable replacement can be found.  I may even go out patrolling in my Nightwing suit.  I’m back.  I’m vertical.  I’m breathing.  Life is good.”

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”

“Does it really matter?” said Dick wearily. 

“Does Harley know about this?”

Dick scowled.  “How’d you know about that?”

Jason shrugged and picked up his coffee cup.  “You’re slick, but you’re not that slick.”  He drank.  “I may hate her ex with the passionate fire of a thousand suns, but get her away from him and she’s actually kind of tolerable.  Kind of.  In small doses.”

“She doesn’t.”

“How much money do you want to bet on that?”

“Look,” Dick snapped, “As I said: this is not my first mental rodeo.  I.  Am.  Fine.  I tried meds.  They didn’t work –”

“Because they take a while to get into your system, Dick!  Damn, I can see why Bruce flipped his shit.  I’m not saying he’s a hundred percent right on everything, but this isn’t exactly something to be taken lightly.”

“Why are we even having this conversation?”

“Because I care.”

“Really?  Since when?”

Jason took in a deep breath.  Dick smirked, clearly assuming that he had won.  “Look,” Jason said slowly, “There are three people in this family who could possibly come close to understanding what happened to you, and I’m possibly one of them.”  He rubbed his hands together.  “I don’t,” Jason sighed, “I don’t want you to lose yourself the way I did.”

Dick’s smirk faded into a concerned glance.  “You died, Jason.  Died and dragged back to the mortal coil against your will.  I’d be pissed as hell, too.  Vengeful ghosts exist for a reason.”

“You died too.”

Dick opened his mouth and closed it quickly.

 Dick’s face fell when he realized that Jason caught the subtext.  “That’s even worse,” croaked Jason.  “We’ve both been around the block to have seen some shit, but this,” he trailed off and looked at the Flying Grayson’s poster that was next to the TV.  “Look, I just… need you to promise me that you’ll go back on the meds.  I don’t give a rat’s ass where you live.  And I’ll be there with confetti and party horns the next time you tell Bruce to go fuck himself.  Just… take your meds.”  Dick’s jaw tightened.  Jason continued.  “If it makes you feel any better, you’re not the only member of this family who needs a little extra chemical assistance.  Tim’s on antidepressants.  Doesn’t make you weak or anything.  It’s like… calling in reinforcements.”

“You have been spending way too much time with Damian.  I’m glad.”

“Deflecting, Dick.”

“I’m allowed.  It’s 7:30 in the morning, I’m only on my first cup of coffee, and you’re actually visiting me of your own free will.”  Dick ran his hand through his hair.  “Fine, Jay.  I’ll talk to my doctor again.”

Jason smiled.  “See, was that so hard?”

“Fuck. You.”

Jason grinned like the Cheshire Cat.  “Want to watch something fun?” he asked as he reached for Dick’s TV remote. 

“I have to leave for work at noon.”

“Sweet.”  Jason turned on the TV to _RuPaul’s Drag Race_.  The brothers watched reruns together for several hours. 


	17. Solo Mission

“Bruce!  Bruuuuuuce!”

“Gimme that back, it’s MINE!”

Tim vaulted into the Batcave with Damian in hot pursuit.  Dick leaned back in the Batcave’s computer chair and frowned. 

“Bruce!  Bruce-Bruce-Bruce!”

“I’ll kill you, Drake, I swear to God I’m going to KILL YOU!”

Dick rose calmly from the computer chair as Tim danced around a very upset Damian, waving a piece of paper.  Dick, being the tallest of the three, plucked the piece of paper from Tim’s hand. 

“Dami’s got a da-ate!” mocked Tim.

Dick looked at the piece of paper in his hand.  It was a single leaf of college-ruled, standard notebook paper that could be found in most American schools.  The writing had been made with a cheap ballpoint pen.  Whoever wrote it had a knowledge of cursive writing, despite the fact that cursive had been ignored in most American schools’ curricula due to standardized testing.  There was a light brown smudge in the bottom right corner that smelled faintly of peanuts. 

The note read: “ _Damian:  Will you come with me to the Snow Ball?”_   Underneath the question were two boxes – one for yes and one for no.  The note was unsigned. 

Dick nodded.  “Good for you.  They’re a lucky person.”  He handed the note back to Damian.  Red-faced, the boy ran back up the stairs.  Once Damian had made his strategic retreat, Dick cuffed Tim on the back of the head.  “You’re a dick.”

“Oh, come on!  You’ve lived here!  He has no problems going below the belt, and I’m just supposed to take his knocks?  Fuck that!”

“He’s fourteen.  Do you really want me to remind you of some of your more awkward teen moments?”

“Jesus, Dick.”

“Go get ready for patrol.  Do it again, and I’ll tell him about that one time in gym class when you were in eighth grade.  You know, that time with the hockey stick and the –”

Tim’s face paled.  “You wouldn’t.”

Dick grinned evilly.  “Like I said:  do it again.”  Tim scampered off and Dick made his way upstairs. He noticed, almost immediately, that Damian had shut his door.  Alfred stood outside, looking slightly concerned.  He must have been in the middle of vacuuming.  Dick knocked.

“Fuck off, Drake.”  Alfred bristled at Damian’s language.  Dick silently shook his head.  Alfred nodded.  He picked up the vacuum and went to the other end of the hallway. 

“It’s the other one.”  Damian cracked the door, slammed it, and undid the chain lock.  Dick stood in the doorway and smiled at the glowering fourteen-year-old.  “May I come in?”

Damian jerked his head.  Dick entered and sat on the floor by Damian’s bed.  Damian’s room was spartan compared to Dick’s and Tim’s.  Damian’s homework was sprawled out on his desk.  There were some hand-drawn pictures of Jonathan Kent and several other children that Dick did not know posted on the wall above the desk.  “So,” said Dick, “who’s the lucky person?”

Damian scowled before joining his brother on the floor.  Alfred the cat casually strolled by and flopped down between them.  Damian began stroking his beloved pet.  “Her name is Kamiya.”

“Do you like her?”

“I find her presence tolerable, but I have no romantic interest in her if that’s what you mean.”

Dick shrugged.  “That works too.”

The pair sat in silence.  Damian continued to stroke Alfred the cat.  Eventually, the teen began to speak.  “She’s at my school on scholarship.  Her family is… underprivileged.  She was being bullied by a trio of harpies because her family can only afford to buy their clothes at the local Save-Mart.  They even had the gall to dump her uniform into the garbage can while we were in gym.”  Damian scowled as Alfred began to purr.  “I loaned her my uniform because I didn’t want her to be embarrassed.  I was prepared to spend the rest of the day in my gym clothes.”

“That’s why you got suspended two weeks ago?”

“I told the principal about what happened.  I did my due diligence and had witness statements at the ready.  He didn’t want to do anything against those bitch-faced harpies because they were legacies.”  Damian spat out the last word.  “It wasn’t just, and I told him that.  Rather strongly.”  Damian sighed.  Dick knew the truth; Damian had almost cursed out the principal before Bruce arrived for the parent meeting.  “If it wasn’t for Bruce and the other teachers threatening to complain to the Board,” Damian trailed off.  Dick frowned.  There was too much being left unsaid. 

“That explains why Bruce still allowed you out on patrol and why you were only out for two days.  You did the right thing, Damian.”

Damian shrugged.  “I did what I was supposed to do.  I’ve been eating lunch with her ever since.”

“What’s she like?”

Damian rolled his eyes.  “She’s not an alien princess or a vigilante,” he remarked dryly.  Dick chuckled.  Damian smiled slightly.  “She’s quiet.  Intelligent.  She enjoys poetry.  Her favorites are Emily Dickenson, Siegfried Sassoon, and Maya Angelou.  She likes my drawings.”  Damian shrugged.  “As I said, I tolerate her.”

Dick rolled his eyes.  Alfred the cat grew bored with his position on the floor and crawled into Damian’s lap.  They sat and listened to the cat purr.  “Have you given her an answer, yet?”

Damian shrugged.  “She gave it to me right as she was leaving lunch today.  I have until Monday.”

Dick was thrown off by Damian’s hesitance.  “What is your biggest concern if you agree to go with her?”

Damian swallowed and continued to look at the cat.  “I don’t,” he paused to collect his thoughts, “I don’t want to embarrass her.  I mean… I never really… thought about all the things we have here.  I don’t care where she gets her dress or where she lives.  But I know that our classmates may take the opportunity to slander her name.”

“And if you refuse?”

“She’ll be hurt.  I don’t want to hurt her self-esteem, either.”

Dick smiled.  “It seems to me that you’ve made up your mind.”

Damian scowled.  “Tt.  This is why I preferred being homeschooled.”

“This is exactly why Bruce sent you to school.”

Alfred the Cat became tired of Damian’s affections and left to take a nap near the windows.  While watching the cat walk away, Damian asked, “I heard that you went to Gotham Academy.”

Dick nodded.  “Only for high school.  I had been in,” Dick exhaled out of the side of his mouth, “three?  Yeah, three public schools before my parents died.  I was homeschooled the rest of the time.  The downsides of living with a travelling circus.”

“Did you go to any of your school dances?”

“One,” said Dick sadly.  “I was often on patrol as Robin, and I did not want to ever ditch my date.  So, I never went to most of them.”

“How was it?”

“I didn’t stay long enough to make an opinion.”  At Damian’s confusion, Dick added, “Barbara was my date.  We went as friends and we both got called by Batman shortly after arriving.  But the short time I was there, I had fun.”

“Father couldn’t spare you or Gordon for two hours?”

Dick shrugged.  “Bruce… was not exactly thrilled that I wanted to go in the first place.  He tried to make an exception for Prom… but you know how it goes.”

Damian nodded.  “Do you think Father would approve of my going?”

“I think he would.  He’s changed a lot since I was a kid.  Plus,” Dick said with a smirk, “you’re the blood son.  He’d move the moon for you.”

Damian scooted toward Dick and sat beside him.  He rested his head on Dick’s shoulder.  “I don’t know any of the popular dances of my peers.  I’ll look foolish.”

“When’s the dance?”

“December 20th.  The last day before we release for the winter holiday.  6-8pm.  Formal attire.”

“We’ll work on that together, ok?  We’ve got plenty of time.”

“Drake is going to laugh at me.”

“Tim’s going to back off of you, because I remember his middle school years better than he does.  Is Jonathan going?”

“The Snow Ball is for eighth graders only.  Jonathan’s in sixth.”

“Solo mission.  You may survive this yet.”

“Shut up,” Damian pushed Dick and Dick laughed. 

True to his word, Damian cornered Dick a few days later and enquired about dance lessons.  The pair set up in the Batcave.  Tim was at an important Justice League meeting with Bruce, so the house was relatively barren.

“Ok,” said Dick as he pulled up several videos containing the music they needed.  “I know most of the older ones and a few from when I had to do this with Tim –”

“I have a hard time believing that Drake ever set foot at a school dance.”

“Eh,” Dick shrugged, “he attended all of the ones in high school, mostly because he was working on a drug bust.”

“Figures.”

“Alright,” said Dick.  “So, they’re probably going to play a lot of rap and hip-hop –”

“Wonderful,” Damian rolled his eyes.

“Which has several dances that are basically musical katas.”

Damian cocked an eyebrow.  He crossed his arms over his chest.  It looked lightly ridiculous coming from a small boy in jeans and a t-shirt.  “Musical katas,” he stated skeptically.

“Yeah,” said Dick.  “Musical katas.  Look:  katas are a scripted series of repetitive motions, right?”  Damian nodded.  “Ok, well, rather than trying to defend against multiple people, you’re doing the same motions repeatedly to establish a pack bond with other humans.”

“That is the weirdest description of dancing that I have ever heard.”

“You’ll see what I mean. Alright,” Dick scrolled through his playlist.  “We’re going to skip the Cha-Cha Slide because it’s basically about following directions.  Let’s do The Cupid Shuffle, then the Electric Slide –”

“I don’t think anyone does that one anymore,” said Damian.

“Well, you’re learning it now so you don’t look like an idiot at a wedding,” muttered Dick.  Damian could tell there was a story there, but let the matter go. “Let’s see… the Whip/Nae Nae, The Wobble, Souja Boy, Stanky Leg –”

“You’re joking.  That’s a thing?”

“Yep.  Ooh, my favorite: The Biker Shuffle!  And I’ll teach you Copperhead Road and two different versions of Cotton Eye Joe, just in case.”

As much as Damian hated to admit it, Dick was ultimately correct.  The popular repetitive dances were, in a rather strange way, similar to katas. 

“Damian, you’ve got to move your arms,” Dick critiqued as they ran through the Cupid Shuffle again.

“It looks stupid.”

“Throw in some open handed, mid-level blocks then.  Add your own style.  As long as you stay on beat, there’s room to add your own unique elements to it.” 

Damian scowled.  As they rotated toward the Batcave’s stairs, Damian beheld – to his horror – Barbara leaning against the railing.  He froze.  Dick, oblivious, kept going.

Barbara smirked.  “Having fun, boys?”

Dick noticed Barbara’s arrival and turned off the music.  “Actually, yes.”

“This isn’t what it looks like!” blurted Damian.

Barbara cocked an eyebrow.  “Oh, really?  Because it looked like you were dancing.”

“I’m… I’m…”

“He’s going on a solo mission.  Highly important,” Dick said.  “He needs to be able to blend in with kids his own age.”

“Oh,” said Barbara “and what is the goal of this mission?”

Damian’s face turned beet red as Dick answered, “Very hush-hush.”

Barbara looked to Damian for an explanation.  “I got invited to the Snow Ball,” he scowled under her gaze. 

“Cool.  So, you’re teaching him how to dance, then?”

“Obviously.  Grayson has the coordination necessary to be an acceptable teacher for all the physical arts,” Damian snipped.  He could feel his hackles raising at Barbara’s suppressed grin. 

“Has he covered slow dancing yet?”

Damian’s face paled.  “I forgot about that.”

“I could help,” Barbara shrugged.  “I am skilled in ballet, and I know for a fact that I have attended more middle school dances than Dick.”

Damian mulled it over.  She did bring up a good point.  “Acceptable.  Although,” he hesitated, “I think the height differential may cause some issues.  I will observe the protocol.  That way I can see how it is properly done.”  Damian smirked as Dick shot him a rather nasty look.  Damian did not have to apply his detective skills to know how his eldest brother felt about Ms. Gordon.  It was almost sickening, watching the pair dance around each other like a bunch of fools.

Damian sat on one of the lower steps as Barbara approached Dick.  “Ok,” she said, “I don’t know if they do this at your school – most school dances don’t anymore – but it’s still good to know.  You don’t have to do anything fancy at your age.”  Dick looked like he would rather be swallowed by the floor.

“Take your arm,” continued Barbara, “and put it on her waist.  Somewhere between the ribs and the top of the hip bones.  Too high and you’re grabbing her chest.  Too low and you’re grabbing her derriere.  Both are no-go zones unless you are looking to get slapped.  Then that’s your own damn fault.  Ok?”  Damian gave a thumbs-up.  She stood in front of Dick.  “May I?” she asked before taking his hands. 

Dick nodded, and Barbara placed his hands on the appropriate spot.  “Her hands will go over your shoulders, like this.”  She demonstrated.  “Your teachers will probably tell you to make sure you leave room for Jesus.”

“I’m Muslim.”

Barbara paused.  “Leave room for Batman.  He’s definitely a coc—”

“Caring adult that does not want to see any hanky-panky on the dance floor,” finished Dick. 

“There will be no hanky-panky, I can assure you,” remarked Damian dryly.

Barbara rolled her eyes.  She demonstrated.  “Since I don’t know her level of dancing, chances are you will both sway in place for a while.”  The pair swayed.  “If you’re feeling adventurous, you can start stepping in a slightly circular fashion.  Then you can add some flair:  twirl her, dip her.  Don’t do anything too acrobatic until you _really_ trust her, ok?  You’ll hurt yourself.”

Damian gave a thumbs-up and nodded.  “That sounds easy enough, but I still need to see it performed.”  Dick scowled behind Barbara’s back as Damian went to the computer.  “I don’t need a long demonstration, but long enough for me to observe the proper form.”  He loaded the video and pressed the play button.

The song was old and would never be played at a modern middle school dance.  Damian knew that it was one of Dick’s favorites, and he wanted to see his brother happy.  Dick was less communicative now that he lived in Bludhaven.  He did not call or text as frequently as he had before his abduction.  Damian would never admit it, but he missed having his brother in the Manor. 

The pair swayed in place, slowly moving closer and closer together.  Damian had been initially skeptical about any possibility of hanky-panky with this type of dancing.  He realized, much to his embarrassment, that his initial impression had been false.  Dick and Barbara had been slowly moving closer together.  Eventually, Barbara was able to rest her head on Dick’s shoulder.

_Lonely rivers sigh_ __  
"Wait for me, wait for me"  
I'll be coming home, wait for me

Dick’s eyes were closed and he was mouthing the words to the song into Barbara’s ear.  She was smiling.  Damian blushed, realizing that he was becoming a third wheel to an intimate moment.  He quietly turned and started walking up the stairs.  The pair continued to dance as the song began to crescendo into the third verse.  As Damian reached the top of the stairs, he ran into Alfred.  Alfred appeared to be preparing for his never-ending war against bat guano.  Alfred was also watching the pair with a small smile of his own.

“You knew she was coming, didn’t you?” Damian whispered conspiratorially.

“Of course,” Alfred whispered back.  “I thought she would be an excellent teacher for you.”  Damian rolled his eyes and continued into the house.  Alfred picked up his bucket and descended down the stairs as the song ended.  The pair were initially surprised to see him.  Once they recovered from their shock, Barbara asked Dick to help her with a case she was investigating.  The pair set to work as Alfred began tackling the monthly cleaning of the cave. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're in the Northeastern USA, stay safe as you deal with your flooding.   
> If you're evacuating from Hurricane Florence, may you get to safety quickly!   
> If you're farther inland in Virginia, North Carolina, and South Carolina, keep an eye out for flooding!   
> No matter where you are, just stay safe everybody.


	18. Homework

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, not a psychiatrist and don't play one on TV. If I messed up on the facts, let me know. There's only so much I can look up on the internet.

“Doctor Smith’s office, Doctor Pierrot speaking.”

“Hello, Harley.”

“Oh, hello.  It’s been a while.  Would you like to schedule an appointment?  I have an open slot for a walk-in at four.”

“Sounds good.  See you then.”

Harley Quinn stared at the phone and shook her head.  She had been working at Dr. Smith’s office in Long Island for less than a month.  She had no idea how Nightwing managed to find her.  Then again, Nightwing was associated with the Bat, and the Bat was richer the Croesus.  It was rather frightening, how quickly the Bats could find someone if they really tried. 

Two hours later, a young man showed up at Dr. Smith’s mental health clinic in Long Island, NY.  Dr. Pierrot – also known as Harley Quinn – was manning the front desk when he entered.  Dr. Smith’s secretary, Susan, was busy filing some papers. 

“I’m here for a four o’clock appointment with Dr. Pierrot,” the young man said.  Susan, a woman in her forties, blushed and turned back towards the filing cabinets. 

“Perfect timing.  If you don’t mind filling out these forms first, I’ll be with your shortly,” responded Harley.  The young man – clearly Nightwing – took the forms and sat down in one of the chairs in the waiting room.  Harley realized that she had never actually seen Nightwing without his mask or costume before.  It was rather jarring.  He completed the forms and handed them to Susan.  Susan ran through the usual first-timer checklist.  Harley left the secretary booth and motioned for Nightwing to follow her.  They went back to her office. 

Harley hated her office.  Her predecessor had been a chain smoker, and the previously white walls had taken on a strange, vomit-like shade of yellow.  She did like the deep cherrywood bookcase and desk, even though the desk was far larger than Harley deemed necessary.  No matter how many types of air fresheners she brought into the office, Harley still couldn’t completely get rid of the cigarette smell.  She had even tried essential oils. 

Nightwing stood nervously as she closed the door and flipped on her light.  She went to sit on the plushy chair across from the comfortable leather love seat in her office.  “Sit anywhere, except behind my desk,” she requested.  Nightwing was still staring at the walls.  “Yeah,” Harley confessed, “not the best color for the walls.  I’ve only been here for about a month, and I don’t want to ask to change the color just yet.”

“Glad to see that you’ve got your own office now,” said Nightwing. 

“Glad you could make the drive.  Seriously, I know that there are qualified psychiatrists in Bludhaven.  I can send ya a list if ya like.”  Harley switched into her Brooklyn accent as she reached over to her desk and pulled out a pen that had a koosh top on it.  The plastic tentacles swayed. 

Nightwing shrugged as he sat down on the couch.  “You’re a hard person to track down.  I heard about your Thanksgiving escapades.”

“Y’know, I wish I could say I was sorry an’ all, but I’m really not.  I can honestly say that I deflated Luthor’s ego.  It made my holiday.”  Harley shrugged.  “So, did’ja bring your homework?”

Nightwing nodded.  He pulled out a blue journal and flipped it to one of the middle pages.  Harley smiled; he had actually taken her advice.  He cleared his throat and read:

_“I want to take some of the stress away from… Red Robin so he can learn how to slow down and breathe without feeling guilty._

_“I want to be there for... Robin and teach him how to love himself and make his own legacy._

_“I want Batman to be happy.  I want him to get married and learn how to let go of his anger but keep his sense of justice._

_“I want Red Hood to know that love doesn’t have to be conditional.  That I love him, even though I don’t approve of what he does sometimes._

“That’s as far as I got,” Nightwing concluded. 

Harley frowned.  “That’s… an interesting take on the assignment.”

“What do you mean?” said Nightwing, leaning forward on the couch. 

“I mean, I asked ya to tell me what ya wanted.  I wasn’t expectin’ you t’ tell me what ya want for others.  So, whaddaya want for yourself?” Harley watched as Nightwing dipped his head.  “It’s a sign'a ya character, Nightwing.  Ya care deeply for others.  You’re rather selfless in that respect.  In this case, I want ya t’ be selfish.  What do you want for yourself?”

“How long to do I have to think about it?” he murmured. 

“How’s about… thirty minutes?  If ya need more time, I can give it to ya.”  Harley turned to her own paperwork as Nightwing laid on the couch and tucked his journal on his knees.  They worked together in aimiable silence for fifteen minutes before Nightwing spoke again.

“You changed your accent when you’re with me.  Why?”  He paused his writing. 

Harley stopped reviewing her case notes from a previous client.  The patient suffered from severe borderline personality disorder, and Harley was trying to figure out the best treatment options for her.  “One thin’ I’ve noticed is that people don’t take ya seriously unless ya speak with an American standard accent like them news anchors use.  As soon as I open my mouth, people hear Brooklyn and think I’m a ditz or I’ma a take ‘em outside an’ show ‘em the backside'a my hand.  I went to a conference before Thanksgiving an’ met this doctor from Pittsburgh.  Nice guy.  The minute we went to the bar afterwards, he was shovin' his vowels up his nose, slurring syllables, an’ usin’ ‘yinz.’  Looked at me like I was gonna snitch on him or somethin’.  Turns out, the guy’s from Butler, which is a steelworker’s town north of the city.  See, I’m from a workin’ class background too, so I get it.  My patients want to hear someone who sounds the way they think a professional should sound like.  So, I give ‘em that.”  She shrugged. 

Nightwing pursed his lips and shrugged slightly.  “Makes sense.”  He continued writing. 

Harley’s phone’s timer went off.  “Alright, d’ya need more time or are ya ready?”

Nightwing put his feet on the floor.  He cleared his throat.  “Okay, here’s what I’ve got:

“ _I want eight hours of uninterrupted sleep._

_“I want the nightmares to stop._

_“I want to enjoy the food I’m eating, rather than eating because I know I’m supposed to or skipping meals because I forget._

_“I want to be able to go out into crowds in my civilian identity without being on edge._

_“I want to be on time for work rather than five to ten minutes late every day._

_“I want to get rid of my anger.  I don’t like being constantly angry._

_“I want to get Desaad’s voice out of my head.  I want him to stop narrating my life and forcing me to second guess my interactions with others._

_“I want to,”_ he hesitated before continuing. _“I want to remember why I fought so hard to come back.  I want to savor the feeling of flying rather than wondering what it would be like to hit the ground._

_“I want to be there for my brothers and sisters.  I want them to know how much I love them._

_“I want to be a father someday.  I want to get married and have kids of my own.  If I can’t have them, I want to adopt, like I was._

_“I want to see Damian graduate from college._

“That’s all I could think of,” he finished lamely.  Harley tried her best to keep her facial features neutral while alarm bells rang in her head. 

“Lemme ask ya something:  are you taking any medications?”

“Not anymore,” Nightwing confessed. 

“What were you taking?”

“Fluoxetine and prazosin.”

“When’s the last time you took them?”

Nightwing rubbed the back of his neck.  “Last week.  Week and a half ago, maybe?”

Harley frowned.  “Why did you stop?”

Nightwing sighed.  “The prazosin made me dizzy.  I passed out a few times after taking it, which scared me.  I got that one adjusted, and it worked for a while.  One of the psychiatrists Batman took me to put me on fluoxetine the Monday after Thanksgiving.  The headaches got worse, and it made me want to eat even less.  It made me drowsy and nauseous, and I can’t afford to be like that when I’m out on patrol.”

Harley nodded.  “So, you were on Prozac for about a week before ya stopped completely.  Did you try it on its own?”

Nightwing nodded.  “I was told to stop taking the prazosin when I told that other doctor about the headaches.  Still felt like you had taken your mallet and conked me on the head every hour on the hour.  I couldn’t fall asleep, and the nightmares came back when I did.”

Harley hummed.  “I’m concerned because I noticed that ya mentioned havin’ suicidal thoughts in your list today.”  Nightwing started, fear etched in his face.  “Didja have these thoughts when you were on just the prazosin?”

Nightwing thought about it.  “Not,” he sighed.  “Not as frequently as I did when I went completely off the meds.”

“I understand not wantin’ to take meds because'a the side effects.  I feel the same way sometimes, too.”  At Nightwing’s inquisitive gaze, Harley added, “I’m taking some antipsychotics to help me hold down this job.  It keeps the cats in the bag, so t’ speak.  I started after Thanksgiving, and it’s takin’ me a while to get used to 'em. 

“But I also noticed that ya’ve made future plans in ya list today as well,” Harley continued.  “That’s a good sign!  I know ya may not feel like it, but yer making progress.  You’ve only been back for… what?  Ten months?  Give or take?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“I’m glad you were honest with me.”  Harley leaned forward in her chair.  “There’s no quick fix solution here.  If Prozac isn’t working for ya, then we’ll work together to find something that will.  If it becomes apparent that the antidepressants are making ya symptoms worse, then we can adjust the dose, find another, or do something else altogether.  St. John’s Wort’s also an option, but I have to admit I’m a little skeptical about it.  I’ll have to ask Ivy; she'd know more about it.  So, ya’ve got options.  From what I’ve seen in our sessions togetha – in person or otherwise – you’re pretty high-functionin’.” 

Nightwing scoffed.  “Sure.  Sure I am.”

Harley scowled.  “When’s the last time ya took a shower?”

“This morning.”

“Do ya shower every day?”

“Usually.  Or every other day, if I’m too exhausted after patrol.”

“Other than being late – which is a problem we’ll address later—do ya feel confident that you can hold down this new job’a yours?”

“Probably.  I’m working as a gymnastics teacher at the community center where I used to volunteer.  They’ve received enough money to hire me full time.  It’s not much, but it’s something.”

“Teachin’ in any capacity is hard work and it’s emotionally drainin’,” countered Harley.  “Didja have any anxiety attacks before, durin’, or after the interview process?”

“No.”

“Have ya had any anxiety attacks at work?”

“No.”

“When’s the last time ya cleaned your apartment?”

Nightwing looked at the ceiling as he thought.  “Friday.  I did a deep clean when I moved back in – got rid of the dust and spiders, stuff like that.  I vacuum every week, keep it relatively free of dust.  Do laundry once a week.  I’ve still got crap on the floor and clutter on my tables.”

“But you’re not going to be evicted for any disturbing smells and/or have started any hoardin’ behaviors?”

“No.”

“When this Desaad guy’s voice pops up in your head, what does he say?”

Nightwing hesitated.  He swallowed.  “Nothing nice.”

“Such as?”

Nightwing closed his eyes and dropped his gaze to the floor.  “That I should have stayed on Apokalips and continued to serve Darkseid.  That’m weak and I’ll get my family killed if I… don’t… take necessary actions to protect them.  He… His voice points out all of my failings.  All of the ways that I’ve screwed up my life and the lives of others.”  Nightwing started scratching the back of his hand.  Harley could see faint scarring; he had done this before.  “I know that he’s wrong… but… sometimes… he’s not.  Not completely.”

“That, right there, is why you’re high functionin’.  You can handle all of the normal day-to-day inta’actions, and ya may have even convinced people that you’re normal.  But deep down, ya fightin’ an invisible battle.  It’s insidious,” replied Harley.  “But you’re not weak, Nightwing.”

“Batman’s got issues, doesn’t take medication, and he’s functional.  He’s fine.”

“I hate to burst yer bubble, but yer old man isn’t exactly the posta child for mental health.  And functional is not the same as fine.”  Harley scribbled some notes on her notepad.  Nightwing’s comparison to his mentor gave her an indication of Nightwing’s high personal standards.  _I guess I can add ‘self-esteem issues due to paternal relationship’ to the list,_ she thought.  “Do ya know anyone else who’s going through somethin’ similar?  Someone who can support ya through this?”

“My younger brother – not the youngest, but the second youngest.  He’s being medicated for anxiety and depression.”

“Does that make him weak?”

“He’s different.  He’s still a kid.  He has a lot on his plate.  And he’s stronger than I am in so many ways.”

“Why does that make him different?  He has mental health issues, and you’re tellin’ me it’s ok for him to take meds.  Why doesn’t that apply to you as well?”  Nightwing contemplated while Harley continued.  "What are yer concerns when it comes to medication?”

“I don’t like how they make me feel.  I hate feeling nauseous, and I need to be alert when I go out on patrol.”

“It’ll take weeks for yer body to get used to medication.  Sometimes, things take time.  I know you’re impatient to go out and support yer family’s business, but ya may have to take a different support capacity while yer body adjusts.  Stoppin’ meds the way ya did can mess up your body, especially if ya don’t tell yer doctor.”

“Yeah,” Nightwing rubbed the back of his neck.  “I did feel like crap after I stopped.”

“Wouldja be willin’ to try a different medication?  I can write you a prescription, but I need assurance that you’ll follow the whole regimen.”

“I… should be able to.  I did promise my brother Jason that I’d go back on meds last week.  I just… didn’t mention this appointment.”

“So, ya have the support of Jason and yer other brother then?”  Harley’s eyes widened as a thought occurred to her.  “Wait… is Jason the one that Puddin’—”

“Beat to death with a crow bar?  Yeah.  Yeah, that’s him.”  Harley winced as Nightwing laughed.  “Don’t worry,” he continued, “he knows that you’re my psychiatrist.  Honestly, I prefer you to the one that Batman made me see.”

“Not sure if that’s a ringin’ endorsement, but at least ya have two people who can serve as yer support system.  Do me a favor:  open that journal and write down the names of three to five people that you consider ya cheering squad on the inside covah.  People y’ know will support you through all of this.  When ya have a bad day, call one of them.  If they can’t talk, call the next one.  If ya can’t get a hold of them three times, replace them with someone else.  You do that while I check something out real quick, ok?”  Harley got up from the plushy chair and went to her desk.  She pulled up several drug interaction websites to do some quick fact-checking. 

“Ok,” Harley sighed as she looked up from her computer.  “There are a coupla issues that we need to discuss.  Ideally, sertraline – Zoloft, if yer looking for brand names – would be the go-to, but now that I’m lookin’ at it more in depth, I’m concerned that it may make your insomnia even worse.”  She sighed.  “And I know that yer worried about the dizziness that prazosin causes – yer active, and exercise makes the dizziness worse.  I can try to lower yer dose of prazosin if ya want t’ keep taking that for the nightmares.  Just enough to get ya through the night, and make it somethin’ you take before bedtime.  There are other methods that we can do to help ya process yer experience without medication.  But you’d have to drive up here at least once a week to do it.” 

Nightwing leaned back in the loveseat, raising his hands above his head as he stretched.  “Is there a wrong answer to all of this?”

“No,” Harley shook her head.  “Like I said, it’s a lot of trial and error.”

“It’s all rather… overwhelming.  Since I’ve never been through this before.”   

Harley leaned onto her desk, her hands folded under her chin.  “It is.  Sometimes havin’ a lot of choices can make us want t’ stay still.  If it’s any help, we’ve already been doin’ one method since ya hired me.  We can keep up the cognitive processin’ therapy – it’s like talk therapy, but we focus more on helpin’ ya process what happened an’ how ya feel about it – but do it in person instead of over the phone.  If the weatha gets bad, we can do it over the phone.  But it’s goin’ to be an hour, hour and a half of yer time every week.”

“For how long?”

“Twelve weeks – three months, basically.”

Nightwing scratched his head and frowned as he mulled it over.  “Basically, you recommend that I go back on the prazosin – because it did help – but change when I take it and how much.  Instead of taking another pill, I come up here once a week for a therapy session.  That about sums it up?”

“Pretty much.  And if that therapy doesn’t work, we can start talkin’ about other medication options, ok?  It's not off the table, but it'll be a back up plan if the therapy doesn't help.”

Nightwing nodded.  “Sounds like a plan.”


	19. Zero Hour

Damian adjusted his tie.  Unsatisfied, he removed his tie and chose a different one.  Unsatisfied, he pulled out a third option.  He sighed in irritation.  None of the ties he owned were satisfactory.  None of them perfectly matched the lace pattern of Kamiya’s dress’s sleeves.  Damian was grateful that her dress was black.  At least it was easy to match the color. 

There was a knock at his door.  “Enter,” he commanded.  Damian turned and saw Dick standing in the doorframe, watching Damian adjust his tie. 

“Looking good, Little D,” Dick grinned.

Damian raised his head in a slightly haughty look.  “I know.  I’m close, but not quite perfect.”  He turned back to the full-length mirror and examined his suit from top to bottom.  “My tie is proving troublesome.”

“What color is her dress?”

“Black.”

Dick grimaced.  “Yeah, that does make it a little difficult to match.”  He entered Damian’s room and sat cross-legged on the bed.  “Do you have a picture of her dress?”

Damian picked up his phone and quickly scrolled to the correct picture.  “Her mother despises the dress.  I think it fits her aesthetic.”  The dress looked like a knee-length goth version of Belle’s dress from _Beauty and the Beast_ with additional lace accents.  The portly girl who was modelling it looked like she wanted to melt the camera with Superman’s heat vision.  “She always looks like that,” Damian clarified to Dick’s confused look. 

“That’s Kamiya?”

“Yes.”  Damian adjusted his hair again.  “I’m about to forget the tie all together,” he muttered.  “But then it becomes semi-formal, not formal.  Damn it.”

“Hmm,” Dick pursed his lips and began going through Damian’s closet.  He peeked back at the picture before popping out of Damian’s room.  Damian fiddled with his hair and quickly applied some anti-acne makeup to a zit that was forming on his forehead.  Dick returned with a black tie that had a gradually forming green and black checkerboard pattern.  “You’re better off tying your tie to your hair than your eyes since your suit is black.  But this may add a bit of color.  Break up the Men in Black, FBI agent look you’ve got going.”

“Hmm,” Damian as he tied the tie into a perfect Eldridge knot.  He surveyed his appearance.  “Better,” he concluded. 

“Not quite,” said Dick.  “I’ve got something for you.”  He pulled out a small ring box from his pocket. 

“If you’re proposing to me, I think that would be considered incest.  If you’re proposing to Gordon, do it yourself.”

Dick rolled his eyes.  “You’re such a jerk,” he muttered.  He tossed the box to Damian.  Damian opened it, and saw a small silver robin lapel pin.  “Alfred gave that to me for prom,” Dick explained.  “Since that was my first school dance – and this one’s yours – I figured I’d give it to you now.  For luck.”

Damian pinned it on his left lapel.  He gave his appearance one final examination.  “Perfect,” he concluded.  At the risk of ruining the lines of his suit, Damian walked to the door and gave Dick a hug.  “Thank you.  I’ll take good care of it.”  Dick kissed the top of Damian’s head before releasing him.

“Ready to face the paparazzi?”

Damian scoffed.  “If this shows up on Gordon’s Instagram, I’m going to release her baby pictures to the world.”

Dick eyed Damian suspiciously.  “You don’t have her baby pictures.”

Damian drew himself up to full height.  “Yet.”  Damian gave his hair one last adjustment before leaving his room.  Dick shook his head and followed him.  The entire Wayne extended family was at the bottom of the stairs.  Stephanie was aw-ing and snapping away on her cell phone.  Alfred was trying his hardest not to break into a large smile.  Cassie watched Damian with interest.  Tim walked past the group, looked at Damian, gave him a thumbs up, and went into the Drawing Room.  Jason had a beer bottle in his hand and released a loud catcall whistle. 

“Fuck you, Jason,” snarled Damian.   

“And there’s the demon we all know and tolerate.  For a minute there, I thought you were a little angel.  Glad the universe is still in a balance.”  Jason took a swig from the bottle. 

Bruce was also dressed in a nice suit.  He checked his watch.  “Damian, we need to head out or we’re going to be a bit more than fashionably late.”

Damian looked back at Dick, trying to keep the disappointment from his face.  “Take loads of pictures, ok?” he said taking his little brother into another hug.  “Let your dad have this one.” Dick whispered into Damian’s hair.  “He missed all of your other firsts.  Prom’s mine, ok?”

Damian nodded before releasing.  They bumped knuckles before Damian, Alfred, and Bruce walked out of the main door.  At Damian’s request, one of the older limousines was pulled out of storage for tonight.  He hoped Kamiya would approve; she liked vintage automobiles. 

The drive to Metropolis took about thirty minutes.  It took an additional fifteen to get to Kamiya’s neighborhood.  She lived in an old tenement building across from a fenced in basketball court.  Alfred frowned as he pulled up to the building.  “I think it would be prudent for me to wait right here,” he responded after seeing several figures loitering on the corner.  Bruce agreed.  He had already had the tires stolen off of his vehicle once.  That was how he had met Jason.  Damian, oblivious to the questionable cast of characters across the street, leapt out of the car and went straight to the buzzer.  Bruce followed one step behind.

Kamiya lived on the top floor.  They found her apartment easily.  Damian knocked.  An older teenager opened the door, shut it, undid the chain lock, and let them in.  “Kamiya,” she bellowed.

“For the last time, Startavea, I didn’t break your curling iron!  Maybe if you didn’t put it on the– Hi, Mr. Wayne!”  Kamiya was a portly girl, a few inches taller than Damian.  Her hair was done in a loose Edwardian style, with some long curls draped down her neck.  She had on a silver necklace and some silver bangles that complimented her dress.  She was wearing black flipflops.  “Mom!  Dad!  Damian’s here!” she bellowed as she ran to the back of the apartment.

A couple emerged from the living room area.  “Mr. Wayne!” said Kamiya’s mother with surprise, “I’m Beverly Adams.  This is my husband, Jerry.”  Bruce shook their hands.  They went to sit in the living room area.  “Thank you so much for taking Kamiya to the dance.”

“My pleasure.  Damian has been looking forward to this all month,” Bruce responded politely.  Damian scowled, clearly embarrassed.  “What time would you like Kamiya back?”

Mr. and Mrs. Adams looked at each other.  “Well,” said Mr. Adams, “the dance ends at eight… how about ten?  Just in case they decide to go out for milkshakes or ice cream or something.”

“Jerry, it’s December,” said Mrs. Adams gently.

“Still!  Hot chocolate then.”

“Do you know if there are any after-parties?” asked Mrs. Adams.

Bruce honestly had no idea.  He did not keep tabs on the social lives of the children at Damian’s school.  It was relatively low on his priority list. 

“There’s one, but frankly, I have no interest in going.  I can’t stand the host,” replied Damian. 

“Who is the host?” asked Bruce.

“Caroline Livingston.”  To Damian’s credit, he did not scowl the name.  Bruce saw Mr. and Mrs. Adams’ faces darken.  Caroline was one of the girls that had dumped Kamiya’s uniform into the garbage can.  The Livingstons were one of the old Metropolis families that had made their money on the stock market right before the crash in the twenties.  Bruce was never impressed with Mark Livingston.  The man’s sense of entitlement was larger than his sense for business.

“Oh God, _that_ bitch,” said Startavea from the kitchen area. 

“Star,” responded her mother in a warning tone. 

Star came into the living room wearing a Batburger uniform.  “Mom,” said Star bluntly, “you know what that bitch did to Kamiya.  If she went to public school, I’d beat her ass.”

“Damian almost did,” yelled Kamiya from the bathroom. 

Star cast a side-eyed look at Damian, who refused to wither under her gaze.  “I like you,” she declared.  “Don’t fuck this up.  Break my sister’s heart, and I’ll break your face.”

“Star,” warned her father.  Star did not seem bothered by it.  She gave two thumbs up and went back to one of the bedrooms.  Star nearly bumped into her sister as she made her way to their shared bedroom. 

“Ready, Gomez?” Kamiya had a large black purse.  She had put on her winter jacket and a pair of black boots.

Damian nodded and rose from the couch.  He walked over to her, took her hand, and kissed the knuckles.  “You look wonderful.”

_Gomez?_ Bruce mouthed.  Mr. and Mrs. Adams glanced at each other before demanding pictures.  Kamiya rolled her eyes.  The pair stood awkwardly in the living room as both sets of parents took pictures of the couple.  As they prepared to leave, Kamiya kissed her mother and father goodbye.  “Don’t worry mom,” said Kamiya, “my virtue shall remain intact.  I have my keys and my phone.  Love you, see you later, bye!”  She and Damian made a mad dash to the elevator.  Bruce, having said his hasty goodbyes, met the pair just as the doors opened.

The group began their descent down to the ground floor.  “My virtue will remain intact?” repeated Damian disbelievingly.  “What the hell, Kamiya?”

“Oh, come on, like you haven’t said weirder things to your parents, Mr. Throws-Around-Latin-Like-It’s-His-First-Language.”

“Arabic’s my first language, not Latin.  And I _don’t_ say that kind of thing to _my_ father!”

“Yes, you do,” muttered Bruce.  Damian glared at his father.  Kamiya looked smug.  They exited out onto the street.  Kamiya whistled, impressed with the car.  Alfred was on the basketball court, playing with the group that had been loitering on the corner earlier. 

“Ka-mi-ya!  Damn, girl!” yelled one of the boys.  “Look at you!”

“Shut up, Jamal!” she yelled back.  “It’s a school formal dance, dumbass!”

“Don’t forget where you came from just because you’re dating some rich motherfucker!” yelled another boy.  Alfred shot a three-point shot, then bowed out of the game. 

“Hey!” yelled the smallest of the group.  “Your grandpa’s got skills!  Wanna be our new coach?  Our current one’s shit.”

Alfred tipped his hat and got behind the wheel.  Bruce moved to the front of the limo to allow the children to have the back to themselves.  The window remained down.  Damian may not have shown any romantic inclinations yet, but Bruce would rather be safe than sorry. 

“So, Kamiya,” Bruce said politely.  “Why did you call my son, Gomez?”

“Because he reminds me of Gomez Addams, Mr. Wayne.  An eccentric, athletic billionaire who’s too smart for his own good,” replied Kamiya sweetly.  Bruce blinked owlishly, until he realized that she was right.  Damian scowled.  Alfred chuckled. 

“I’m not too smart for my own good,” retorted Damian, clearly affronted. 

“You’re right… Gomez is far more optimistic than you.  But you’re too skinny to be Pugsley and the wrong gender to be Wednesday.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” huffed Damian.

Kamiya was baffled.  “You’ve never seen _The Addams Family_?  The TV show from the 1960s?  The movies from the 90s?”

“No.”

Kamiya shook her head.  “If this whole dance thing doesn’t work out, I know exactly what our plan B is going to be.”

“Which is?”

“ _Addams Family_ marathon at my house.  Will definitely stop my mom from having a stroke.”

“She hasn’t figured it out yet?”

“I dunno.  Not sure if she has or hasn’t, but I’d rather avoid that conversation.  Until I’m already out of the house, preferably.”

“Your mom’s still on you about your gym grade?” asked Damian, quickly changing topics. 

Kamiya released a long-suffering sigh.  “Yes, I can’t wait until we get to high school and gym becomes an option rather than a requirement.  Did you know we have to take _swimming_ next semester?”  She flopped back dramatically.  “I thought middle school was hell _before_.”

Damian shrugged.  “The view will be nice in your class though.”

Kamiya snapped her fingers.  “True,” she responded, pointing at Damian. 

“You could always show up in a wetsuit.  Modest, and connects to your Edwardian obsession.”

“I only like the fashion and the poetry.  The racism can stay there, thank you very much.  It wasn’t exactly a great time to be African American, you know.”

“Good point,” Damian conceded.  “Any ideas for what you want to do after the dance?”

“Can we just get through the dance without you or me punching someone’s face in, first?”

“You, yes.  Me, questionable.”

Bruce gripped the bridge of his nose.  He had a sinking feeling that he was going to get another call from the principal before the night was over.  The limousine pulled up to the front of Damian’s school.  Damian ordered Kamiya to stay in the car as he dashed out to open her door.  Bewildered, Kamiya waited until Damian opened her door and took her hand before exiting.  Bruce gave one last wave before he and Alfred went to do some last-minute holiday shopping.  The pair walked up the front steps into the main foyer, went through security, handed in their tickets, and followed the signs to the gymnasium.  

The gym had been decorated beautifully.  Icicle lights hung between the basketball hoops.  Large paper snowflakes that had been created by the art classes hung from the walls.  Paper chains accented with glitter was also strung around the icicle lights.  A table with punch and snacks had been set up along one wall, with the DJ booth stationed opposite.  Half of the bleachers had been pulled down to allow room for sitting.  Some of their classmates were already dancing to “Back That Thang Up.” 

Damian looked at Kamiya.  She looked at him.  “Knuckles,” she said.  The pair bumped knuckles and braced themselves for two hours of battle.  They made their way over to the punch table, snagging two glasses before anyone thought about spiking it.  Last year, three parents had called to complain that their children had staggered out of the gym and puked in their cars.  Clearly, the headmaster was going for style over practicality by having an open punch bowl rather than using the orange athletic coolers.

“So much nicer than my old school,” remarked Kamiya as she drank her punch.  “Do you expect to be sitting all night or are we dancing?”

“I… only know the line dances,” Damian confessed.  “They’re the only ones I practiced!”

“You practiced for this?  Damian,” Kamiya squealed, “that’s the cutest thing I have ever heard.  Look, flail your arms, jump around.  You can’t look more ridiculous than poor Trevor,” she pointed to Trevor McMahon.  McMahon was the middle school quarterback and one of the more popular kids in the eighth grade.  He had coordination on the field.  On the dance floor, the kid looked like a poorly made animatronic puppet.

“Is he having a seizure?” remarked Damian. 

“No, he always dances like that.  Ooh, c’mon!”  She grabbed Damian’s hand as the opening bars of “Get Low” cranked through the speakers.  The version they played was the clean version.  The version Kamiya sang was not.  Damian noticed that several of his classmates were shooting dirty looks in their direction.  He started singing the dirty version of the chorus just as loud to spite them. 

He awkwardly bobbed beside Kamiya for a few more songs.  Damian was secretly impressed; Kamiya knew how to dance very well.  They went over to the bleachers to catch their breath and eat a few cookies.  “Bitches, three o’clock,” muttered Damian through a mouthful of white chocolate and macadamia. 

“Damian,” cooed one of the three girls that had approached.  To Damian’s dread, it was Caroline Livingston.  Her long, light brown hair had been pinned up in an elaborate style and accented with rhinestones.  Damian knew from a quick look at her dress that it came from a Parisian designer.  Her associates were similarly clad.  “I’m so glad you could come!  You so rarely come to these events!  It’s wonderful to see you!”

_No, you’re not_ , thought Damian, _you’re still pissed that I got you suspended for bullying, you lying bitch._

“Listen,” said Caroline sweetly, “I’m having an after-party at my house, and I didn’t get your RSVP!  Quelle tragique!  It wouldn’t be a party without you!”

“Is my date also invited to this?” he replied dryly. 

Caroline looked around dramatically.  “Where is she?”

Damian put his arm around Kamiya, and clicked his tongue while making a finger gun that he pointed at her. 

Caroline grimaced.  “Dami, dear, it’s an exclusive party.  I’m sure you understand:  VIPs only.  And – no offense – but your ‘date’ doesn’t quite make the cut.”

“Then, I’m not coming,” replied Damian with the same fake sweetness as Caroline.  “Have fun.”

Caroline rolled her eyes.  “Damian, you know she’s a –”

“Wonderfully talented and amazing person?  Yeah, I know.” Damian finished for her. 

“I’m right here, people,” said Kamiya awkwardly. 

“And God knows why,” snarled Caroline.  “Really, I was told this was an exclusive private school.  But I guess someone has to be the diversity hire, huh?”

“Listen, you stuck-up, smarmy little bitch,” snarled Damian in return, rising from his seat.  He got into her face.  “That, right there, is why you will never, ever, have the pleasure of my company.  Let’s face it:  the best you can ever hope to be is a Vicodin flavored piece of arm candy doomed to be trapped in a loveless marriage to an old geezer thrice your age who will eventually cheat on you when you get your first gray hair.  Just.  Like.  Your.  Mother.”  He smirked.  “You are going nowhere, and you know it.  Enjoy your looks.  Beauty fades, dumb is forever.”  Damian looked at Kamiya.  “Come on, let’s dance.” 

They practically ran onto the dance floor and was swallowed by the crowd.  “Jesus, Damian,” remarked Kamiya, “remind me never to piss you off.  That was a little below the belt, don’t you think?”

“Everything I said,” replied Damian as he continued his awkward bobbing, “is completely true.  Although, that last parting shot I stole from a TV show my brother made me watch.”

“The Cupid Shuffle” began and the pair joined in.  Damian would never admit it out loud, but this particular dance was his favorite.  He became painfully aware that Caroline and her friends were on their phones, occasionally taking pictures of the two of them. 

Kamiya saw it, too.  “This is going to be all over Kik and Snapchat by the end of the night, you know that, right?”

“Tt,” Damian scoffed.  “I’ve endured worse from better people.  If she wants to be a poor-man’s copy of Vicki Vale, let her.  Still doesn’t change everything I said about her.  Besides, if anything, they may be remarking on my lack of dance skills.  Which works in my favor.”  Kamiya was unsure how to respond to that. 

After dancing for a few more songs, Damian was tired and sweaty.  The lights in the gym were turned on, and the children instructed to make their way to the front of the school.  Pair by pair, children entered different cars.  Damian opened Kamiya’s door and the pair got inside the limo.

“So,” said Bruce, “how was it?”

“Satisfactory,” said Damian.

“I had fun,” said Kamiya.  “Again, thanks for the ride, Mr. Wayne and Mr. Pennyworth.”

“Anytime, my dear,” replied Alfred.

“Kamiya, your parents said you don’t have to be home until ten.  It’s 8:15.  Is there anything you two want to do before we take you home?” asked Bruce

Kamiya looked at Damian.  “Well… there is a poetry slam at a coffee shop near here.  Want to check it out?”  She pulled out her phone to look up the details.  “It says on their website that it ends at 9:30.  That should give us plenty of time to get me home.  Or not, if that’s not your thing.”

Damian looked at his father.  “Sounds good to me.  I could use a cup of coffee.”

The car parked near Midnight Mass, a locally owned coffee shop located a few blocks away from the school’s campus.  It was a known hangout for the high school students, who were allowed to go off campus for lunch.  Damian ordered a rosemary latte and a slice of lemon cake.  Kamiya ordered a lavender latte and a black-and-white cookie.  Alfred ordered a cappuccino.  Bruce had a double espresso.  The coffee was excellent.  The poetry ranged from brilliant to mediocre.  Kamiya’s commentary on the different poets’ styles was informative.  At 9:30, they quietly made their way back to the car.

Damian insisted on walking Kamiya back up to her apartment.  He came back, slightly blushing. 

“Did you have fun, Master Damian?” asked Alfred. 

Damian sat in thoughtful silence before replying, “Yes… yes, I did.”

“You know,” said Bruce, moving to the backseat before the car began the drive back to Gotham.  “You can take some nights off to go to school dances.  You’ll have plenty of time to be a hero.  These kinds of things… they don’t last forever.  And if Kamiya ever wants to come over –”

“She’s welcome?”

Bruce nodded.  “I’m glad you’re making more friends than just Jonathan.  You survived your first school dance.  I’m proud.”

Damian shrugged.  “Mission accomplished.  But I forgot to take pictures.  I promised Dick I would.”

“I’m sure he’ll look forward to your report, Robin,” said Bruce.  “I know he helped you prepare for your mission.”  He winked at his son. 

Damian scowled.  “He told you, didn’t he?”

“Alfred emailed pictures to my work address.”

“Traitor,” Damian muttered.  The limousine pulled into the Batcave.  Dick was manning the computer, while Tim was grabbing some last-minute supplies before heading out for patrol.  Damian had untied his tie and went toward the lockers to grab his costume. 

“So,” said Dick without looking up.  “How was it?”

Damian changed course and ran over to tell his brother everything about the dance.  Bruce smiled as Damian became increasingly animated.  Dick chuckled at certain points, smiling broadly.  There was a click.  Bruce turned and saw Alfred with his cell phone.  He turned the phone toward Bruce and showed the picture. 

“Send that to me, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all, I hope you and yours survived any and all weather related calamities. I'm ok. My area got hit with the remnants of Florence. My work was cancelled for the last two days due to flash flooding and an EF0 tornado hitting my county. 
> 
> If at all possible, I encourage you to help those nearest you who have been effected by Florence or Mangkhut. Contact any local rescue squads or aid organizations to see what supplies they need. From what my local rescue squad has said: water, nonperishable/canned foods, baby supplies, and cleaning supplies are on the list for Florence affected areas. All areas affected by these storms will need assistance in the weeks to come.


	20. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

The melodic sounds of jazz trumpet flowed mournfully through the Iceberg Lounge.  The trumpeter, Chris Botti, was accompanied by a four-piece band playing jazz renditions of Christmas carols.  Jason Todd – Red Hood – sat at the bar with his red face muzzle next to his coaster.  Christmas was never Jason’s favorite season.  Too much false cheer.  Too much temporary charity.  Tidings of comfort and joy and goodwill to all men, his ass.  Jason knew there was a religious reason for the season, but it seemed like people were perfectly content to ignore what Jesus said the other 363 days of the year.  Whatever.  He took another sip of his whiskey. 

There was a commotion by the front door.  Nightwing had entered in full uniform, his hands in surrender as the bouncers wanded him.  One of Oswald Cobblepot’s associates was confronting the hero.  Whatever Nightwing had said must have appeased the person in charge because the hero was allowed inside.  Jason rolled his eyes.  How the hell did Dick manage to charm almost everyone he met?  It was absolutely absurd. 

Then again, Jason was sitting in the Iceberg Lounge, vertical and breathing, after putting the owner into the ICU.  Again.  He had a damn good reason, not that anyone in his adoptive family seemed to give a shit. 

Nighwing slid into the empty barstool next to Jason.  Jason was determined to ignore his brother.  They did not have much to say to each other since Batman had – once again – exiled Jason from the family.  Somewhere between Damian’s dance and Christmas Eve, Jason had managed to get on Batman’s bad side and all of his sins were laid bare.  The Bat had faster mood swings than Harley Quinn.  It had stung a bit that no one in the family had come to Jason’s defense.  Then again, Dick and Cassie had been out of town.  Damian was still flying from the high of his first school dance.  Tim was Tim.  Alfred probably tried to run interference, but his relationship with Batman had always been complicated. 

Jason was on his second glass of whiskey, and the buzz was slowly reaching the tips of his fingers.  He felt warm and tingly in the fun way. 

“Merry Christmas,” said Dick after being ignored for five minutes.

“What the hell do you want?” snarled Jason.

Dick, to his credit, did not rise to the bait.  “Alfred’s under the impression that you are not coming to dinner tomorrow.  It’s Christmas Eve.”  He slid a package wrapped in brown paper over to Jason’s elbow.  “Since I’m not sure I’ll be able to track you after this, here’s your gift.”

“Gifts are for Christmas Day, douchebag.”

“It was either now, dinner, or Epiphany.  Pick one.”  Dick looked at his brother expectantly.  “Are you going to open it, or are you going to have it age like that whiskey you’re drinking,” he said after a pause.  “I’m not leaving until you do.”

Jason sighed and rolled his eyes.  He snatched the paper and tore it off in one go.  His eyes bulged.  It was a 1946 edition of Howard Pyle’s _The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood_. 

Chris Botti was still playing, and he was finishing the song Jason hated the most.

_Someday soon, we all will be together_

_If the fates allow_

_Until then, we’ll have to muddle through somehow._

“Merry Christmas, Little Wing,” whispered Dick.  Jason went to ask his brother a question, only to find that Nightwing had disappeared.  _Fucking bastard,_ thought Jason.  _He wants to guilt trip me into going to fucking dinner.  Fucking hell._   Jason drained his whiskey, paid his bill, and went out into the cold, Gotham night with the book tucked into his jacket.

The night should have ended there.  Jason should have gone right to one of his homier safe houses, curled up in bed, and reflected on the futility of life and Christmas until he passed out.   Instead, he found himself walking around Gotham, kicking snowbanks and muttering to himself.

“Stupid Dick and his stupid puppy dog face and his stupid manipulative smile, that son of a bitch,” Jason angrily kicked a beer can down the sidewalk.  “Fucking thinks he can waltz into my life and fix all my fucking problems, the jerk.  I’m not the one with the fucking moral superiority complex, the goddamn bastard.  I had perfectly good reasons for doing what I do, thank you very much, and some fuckers just need killing and he knows it.  I didn’t even kill the damn guy.  He’s fucking alive, Jesus Christ.”  Jason switched to kicking a rock instead.  “I don’t even fucking like Christmas!  Dickhead only likes the bright and shiny lights, the fucking toddler.  Jesus Christ.” 

The temperature had dropped twenty degrees.  Jason pulled his hood over his head.  Days like today made him miss the red helmet he used to wear.  It certainly cut down on the windchill.  As Jason lost feeling in his toes, he realized that it was time to call it a night.  One of his safehouses was a few blocks away.  Jason went to its front door and entered his passcode.

_Access denied._

Jason blinked and entered his code again.

_Access denied._

He tried to use the retinal scanner.

No use.

“Fucking… what?”  Jason snarled as he managed to lock himself out of his safehouse.  As inconvenient as it was, he had about twenty more to try. 

It took all night.

Every single one was locked.  Jason, try as he might, could not get in to his own houses.  He tried rerouting the systems, pulling out wires, rebooting the keypads, resetting his passwords, throwing the breakers, and picking the old-fashioned locks.  No luck. 

“DICK!”  Jason bellowed on the verge of insanity.  He did not know whether to laugh or cry.  The last thing he wanted to do on Christmas was empathize with his greatest archenemy, but he understood why Joker would go nuts.  Maybe this is what finally drove that lunatic off the edge – the poor guy had been locked out of his own house by a fucking psychopathic roommate.  “You fucking prick,” he whined as his head banged against the door frame, “I just wanna go to bed!”

A thought dawned on him.  Jason had a bed.  A warm, king-sized wonder at Wayne Manor.

No.

No.

Not an option.

Abort mission. 

Jason looked over his shoulder at the cold, dimly lit street.  Hypothetically, he could find a pile of newspapers and rough it out for a night.  He did not, however, want to end up a popsicle.  The windchill had dropped into the single digits.  Hypothermia would not be hypothetical tonight.  Realizing that he was too tired to drive, Jason grimaced and pulled out his credit card.  He opened an app on his cell phone and called for a Lyft.  The price of a cab was worth the cost of dealing with the Bat in the morning. 

Plus, there was a chance that his manipulative bastard of a brother would still be awake.  Jason wanted to punch Dick in the face.  

The cab ride took less than twenty minutes.  After giving the Lyft driver a generous tip – the poor girl was working Christmas Eve night, and that spoke volumes – Jason staggered to the back door.  For some reason, it was unlocked. 

“I’m going to kill him,” muttered Jason.  Dawn was beginning to creep on the horizon.  It was officially Christmas morning. 

Dick was sitting at the kitchen table, typing on his laptop.  He glanced up as Jason threw open the glass back doors and glared at his elder brother.

“Oh, Jason, Merry Christmas,” said Dick.  “Coffee?”  He lifted his mug in salute.

Jason tried to take deep calming breaths.  Instead, it came out as hysterical wheezing.  “You prick,” he ground out with a snarl.  “You fucking bastard.  What did you do to my shit?”

“Why, Jason,” said Dick with a smile that did not reach his eyes, “whatever do you mean?”

Jason’s laughter sounded like a deranged version of Santa.  “Oh, ho, ho, you prick.  I’m going to murder you in your sleep.”

Dick sipped his coffee.  “You’re welcome to try.  I’ve got a decent track record so far.”  He continued typing on his laptop.  “You may want to keep it down, though.  Bruce is still asleep.  Rough patrol.  Mr. Freeze seemed to be taking the winter solstice a little too seriously this year.”  Dick looked up at Jason.  “Your room is made up, there’s Christmas pajamas on your bed, and breakfast will be in,” he checked the clock on his laptop, “thirty minutes.  That should be enough time for a power nap.  Alfred could really use your help with dinner.  He looks forward to cooking with you when you’re home.  Or you could grab a cup of coffee and read that book I gave you.”

Jason was torn between wanting to vault over the table to strangle Dick and crashing onto the table dead asleep.  “I… you… fuck,” he collapsed into a chair.  “Fuck you,” he muttered.  “Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

Dick got up and poured Jason a cup of coffee.  “I’ve got some Oracle business to attend to.  Barbara’s with her dad today, and I promised I’d get these records to her by tomorrow morning.  So,” he shrugged. 

“You fucking hacked my shit,” whined Jason.

“Yep.  Totally.”

“Why?” Jason whined as his head hit the table.  The earthy smell of coffee drifted around his head.  The damn thing was going to be cold before he ever got around to drinking it.  

“Because both you and Bruce need to cry some rivers, build some bridges, and get the fuck over yourselves,” said Dick bluntly. 

“’Snot my fault he’s a sanctimonious prick.”

“Are you expecting me to scream at your word of the day there, Pee-wee?”  Dick glared at Jason over the top of his laptop.  He continued typing. 

“Why are you being a bitch today?  What the fuck did I do?”

“Well, you shot Penguin for starters.  Again.  And yeah, technically he’s not going to die, and I’m fairly certain he had it coming.  So, there’s that.  I mean… the last time you shot the guy was on live TV.  Not a banner moment in the life of our family.  Really don’t need a round two on that front. 

“And before you go jumping off your cliff of conclusions, I’m not saying that Bruce’s reaction was appropriate.  Having been on the receiving end of a Bruce beatdown, the fact that you are still walking is a goddamn miracle.”  Jason picked his head up at that.  Dick did not swear very often. 

Oblivious, Dick continued while he worked on his computer.  “And yeah, there are some fuckers that just need killing.  You know that.  I know that.  Bruce knows that, too.  I’m convinced he doesn’t want to play God because he knows what it’s like to be on the receiving end.  But let’s face fact:  if the Joker had stayed dead, most of our problems would disappear and this family would be the happier for it.  The only reason why we’re not in jail is because we try to bring in the so-called bad guys using some semblance of decorum.  Otherwise, I’d be facing a lifetime of assault and murder charges.  Not exactly an ideal situation to be in for a penny, in for a pound, if you catch my drift.”

Jason gaped.  Dick actually agreeing with his viewpoints.  The world was ending.  Yep, the apocalypse was nigh. 

Jason must have said that last bit out loud because Dick shot him his trademarked bitchface.  “If it’s any consolation, I’m also on Bruce’s Naughty List.”

“Fuck you.  You could tap dance stark fucking naked capping Congress and you’d still be the favorite child.”

“Not favorite, just first.  Fairly certain you two fight like cats and dogs because you’re so similar.”  Jason was appalled.  Dick raised his hands and ticked off his points on his fingers.  “Stubborn as fuck, generally misanthropic, monstrous rage issues, traumatic childhoods, kind and caring to those who deserve it.”

“I fucking hate you.”

“Language, Master Jason,” murmured Alfred wearily as he entered the kitchen fully clothed.  “There are children in the house.”

“You and I both know that Damian swears like a sailor when Da-Bruce is not around,” Jason rolled his eyes and drank some coffee. 

“Be that as it may, we will not have that language today of all days.  Understood?  Merry Christmas, by the by.”

“Merry Christmas.  How was church, Alfie?” Jason smacked his lips.  He wondered if Alfred knew that Dick had dipped into the good stash again.  It tasted like some fair-trade stuff from Kenya. 

“Well.  I went to St. Michael’s for midnight Mass.  The choir was excellent.  Dick went with me.”

Jason glanced over at his brother.  “Never pegged you for the church going type.”

Dick shrugged as he read a police report on his laptop.  He typed an addendum to the file.  “With the year I’ve had… I owe someone somewhere a big thanks for getting me out of it.  Plus, Alfred got into a fight with the priest of St. Timothy’s Episcopal –”

“It was not a _fight_ , it was a verbal disagreement –” Alfred interrupted as he started to make cinnamon rolls.

“And I’m pretty sure that he made the vicar eat his words,” muttered Dick.

“He’s a rector, not a vicar.  There’s a difference.”

Jason shook his head.  “Never pegged you to start arguing with the church ladies there, Alfie.”

“The ladies at St. Timothy’s are quite an exuberant and faithful bunch, but my quarrel was not with them.  I simply took issue with one of the priest’s homilies and felt obligated to make it known.  I still assist in the various missions of the church, and I will attend regularly again once we get a new priest.”

Jason looked at Dick for clarification.  “The priest didn’t exactly approve of single parents,” said Dick, looking over the top of his laptop screen before returning to his work.  Jason nodded.  Thomas Wayne may have been Bruce’s father, but they both knew that Alfred was too.  Raising Bruce alone could not have been easy for Alfred, especially once Bruce decided to dress up as a bat and fight crime. 

“Wait,” said Jason after a thought, “isn’t St. Michael’s a Catholic church?”

“Yep,” said Dick with a tone that immediately ended all smart aleck comments Jason was planning. 

“Fair enough,” said Jason.  He chugged another gulp of his coffee.  Alfred put the cinnamon rolls in the oven and began making the frosting.  “I’ve got an idea about what to get you for Christmas next year.”

“What’s your gift to me this year?” said Dick as he went over to the kitchen counters to cut up some oranges and grapefruit.

Jason spread out his arms.  “I am your gift.  Mostly because I am borderline broke and currently homeless thanks to you.”  Alfred and Dick looked at each other, then rolled their eyes in sync. 

Damian was the first of the extended Wayne clan to mosey down the stairs.  He rubbed the sleep from his eyes.  “Todd,” he muttered by way of greeting before launching into some handstand pushups.

“Shortstop,” Jason raised his coffee glass in mock salute.  Damian glared at him and resumed his morning workout routine.

Alfred took the cinnamon rolls out of the oven and began adding the frosting.  Dick moved the orange slices and grapefruit halves over to the table.  It was a Wayne family tradition to have a light Christmas brunch before having a gargantuan Christmas meal.  Since Damian was vegetarian, there would also be a tofu substitute for the ham available.  Jason’s favorite chore had been to put the cloves into the scores of the ham.  Alfred still bought the bone-in hams and scored it himself for easy carving later. 

Tim stumbled down later and sat semi-conscious in his usual seat.  He grunted.  Alfred must have understood him because a cup of coffee materialized in front of Tim.  Tim clutched the coffee cup in front of him, savoring the smell.  Dick passed a pill box to Tim.  Tim popped open the correct day, dumped out its contents, and knocked them back with a coffee chaser. 

“Food, Timmy,” said Dick.

“M’eatin’ food.  See?”  Tim reached over and grabbed one of the orange slices.  He shoved it in his mouth and ate the flesh.  He put the rind over his teeth and flashed an orange smile. 

“Brat,” said Dick fondly. 

Bruce is the last to enter, shuffling into the room in his bathrobe and pajamas.  He spots Jason, and his look became murderous. 

“I should go,” said Jason slowly.  He began to rise from the table.  “Happy Festiv—”

Dick’s hand slammed on the table.  “No,” said Dick sternly but calmly.  “Please stay.”  Jason felt his jewels withdraw into his body.  The younger boys looked at the eldest.  Dick’s look brooked no argument.  Cassie leaned against the doorframe behind Bruce, casually watching the scene. 

“Dick,” said Bruce, his voice brimming with anger.  “What is he –”

“Tim.  Damian.  Leave the room, please.”  Dick’s voice was outwardly calm.  Jason saw Damian’s eyes widen as he rose from the floor.

“But—what?” said Tim.

“Tim,” said Damian calmly, “Let’s go watch the Metropolis Parade.”  He took Tim by the shoulder and said sotto voce, “Dick is pissed and using his Batman voice.  We need to go.  Now.”  Tim, shocked that Damian actually used his first name, scarpered out after his brother.  Alfred went into the laundry room to catch up on some laundry.  Cassie went into the snack closet and pulled out a back of white chocolate popcorn.  She was here to watch the show.

Dick sat back in his seat and leveled his gaze at Bruce.  Bruce’s glare alternated between Jason and Dick.  Jason looked nervously between Dick and Bruce.  It took all of his willpower not to suddenly burst out into the wild west theme that goes “wah wah waaaah.”

“He’s not welcome here,” Bruce broke the silence with a snarl.

“Since when?” said Dick.

“Since he shot the Penguin in the chest.”

Dick reached over and grabbed his coffee cup.  He slouched in his chair.  “Penguin’s condition is stable.  He’s scheduled to be released at the end of the week.  No doubt he’s attempting to sexually harass nurses and demanding other food than what the kitchens provide.  Jason,” Dick looked at his brother.  “Why did you shoot the Penguin this time?”

“He’s trafficking drugs that are being sold to kids.”

“He’s trafficking drugs that are being sold to kids,” repeated Dick.  “Which is a new low even for Mr. Cobblepot.  Now, I think Jason made his point loud and clear.  Is Cobblepot going to stop trafficking drugs that are being sold to kids?”

“He is now,” muttered Jason.   

“See?  No harm done.  Or do we need to discuss the excessive force that you used on Black Mask when he threatened Catwoman?”

Jason started.  “What happened to Black Mask?”

Before Bruce could argue, Dick replied, “He threw him off of a four-story tenement into a garbage truck.  I’m pretty sure he’s still in traction, isn’t he?”

Bruce ground his teeth.  “He’s out of the hospital now.”

“So, it’s ok for you to use excessive force but when your kids do it –”

“That’s semantics, Dick, and you know it,” growled Bruce.

“I don’t think you’re using that word properly.  At any rate,” Dick took a quick sip of his coffee, “I think in the spirit of Christmas we can hopefully put aside our differences, eat a few lovely meals, open some gifts, then go back to hating each other tomorrow.  Ok?”

“Dick, I –” Bruce started.

“And in case I didn’t make myself blatantly clear, that’s not a request,” snapped Dick.  “It’s Christmas.  It’s the first Christmas since I got back from being turned into a Parademon.  If you want to start this shit today, I’m heading out and taking Damian and Tim out for bad Chinese food à la _The Christmas Story_.  And you can deal with Alfred yourself.  Do you understand?”   

Bruce had been backed into a corner and everyone knew it.  Cassandra happily munched on her white chocolate popcorn.  Bruce’s shoulders deflated.  He knew he was beaten.  “Excellent,” said Dick.  “Cassie, can you go get the boys?  Let’s start our day with Jason’s favorite Festivus tradition:  the airing of grievances.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's just pretend that Nightwing 50 didn't happen in this universe, ok? Ok.


	21. God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen

The initial exchange was rather disappointing.  Tim was not entirely sure why Dick had asked him and Damian to leave.  Other than Dick making a valid point about Bruce’s hypocrisy, the exchange had been relatively tame despite being loud.  Surely, they had seen worse in their respective tenures as Robin.  He and Damian sat awkwardly in the study staring at the blank TV screen.  Tim still did not understand why Damian was on edge.  They could take Todd if he tried anything funny.

Cassie entered the study and announced that they were all going into the drawing room for a family meeting.  Tim eyed her skeptically.  Usually, “family meeting” was code for tactical planning meeting.  Damian sent a worried glance toward Tim before exiting to the drawing room.  Tim shrugged.  With Mr. Freeze’s recent rampage, no doubt there would be some debrief about how to handle the villain in future exchanges.

Everyone was still in their pajamas when Tim entered the drawing room.  The chairs had been rearranged into a circle.  Dick was holding one of his escrima sticks.  Bruce was sulking, glaring at both Dick and Jason.  Damian was still as a statue, seated next to Dick on the couch.  Tim noticed that he was almost a little too close.  Cassie was sitting next to Damian.  Jason looked like a rabbit about to bolt.  His eyes darted from Bruce to the doors.  Tim knew he was plotting an escape. 

“Alfred,” bellowed Dick.  “C’mere, please!”  Alfred entered the room carrying a tray of tea with mugs.  “Please sit,” he motioned to one of the empty chairs.

“This is stupid,” said Damian. 

“Master Dick,” said Alfred hesitantly, “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“This is a Festivus tradition,” argued Dick.  He held up his escrima stick.  “I didn’t have time to get an actual Festivus pole, and I’m aware that the Airing of Grievances usually occurs during the holiday meal.  But let’s face it:  our family can’t wait that long.  We’ve put this off long enough.  You hold the stick.  You talk.  When you’re done, you pass it on.”

“Isn’t this a mediation technique used by counselors?” said Tim.  He knew it was; he just wanted confirmation.

Dick rolled his eyes.  “Yes, yes, it is.  Shut up and sit down.”  Tim sat in one of the vacant arm chairs in the circle.  Alfred took the remaining. 

“Festivus was two days ago,” muttered Jason.  Dick glared at him.

“Do I look like I give a shit?  You bolt, I hunt you down.  All of your safehouses will remain locked until you participate.  Understood.”

“Blackmail,” muttered Jason.  “Fucking blackmail.”

“And you’re still under the impression that I care,” said Dick.  “Congratulations, Tim, you get to go first.”

Tim blinked rapidly.  “Why am I going first?”

“Because you never talk about your issues with us.  So, how have we all disappointed you over the year?”

Tim wracked his brain.  “Um… well… Damian, stop threatening to kill me.  It’s getting old.  I’m not your competition and I haven’t been for a while.  So, please get the fuck over that.  Jason, you paid me back for wrecking my bike – so we’re cool on that front – but go to fucking therapy, man.  You have more past issues than _Time_ magazine and this angsty shit is getting annoying.  Like, when’s it going to end?  Dick, I’m not going to kill myself, and I’m in therapy.  So, stop mother-henning me.  It’s smothering.”  Dick nodded.  “Also, take your fucking meds and go to fucking therapy, you hypocrite.  Seriously.  Will do you some good.” 

This was oddly therapeutic.  “Bruce,” Tim sighed.  Oh, the list was long with this one.  “We’re your kids, not your goddamn tactical team.  You went off the rails trying to get Dick back and left us all in the lurch.  Again.  You don’t call me unless you need something, and living up to your reputation is exhausting.  I’m tired of being treated like your secretary and not your son.  I want father-son bonding time that does not include a cape, a mask, and some world-ending crisis.  But I never fucking get that.”  Bruce looked stricken.  Tim felt bad about that, somewhat.  “Alfred, we’re cool.  Ok, I’m done.”

“Pass it to Cassie.  Cassie, sign if you have to.”

Cassie nodded and put the stick in her lap.  Tim looked around nervously.  Cassie only signed if she had a lot to say and lacked the verbal vocabulary to do so.  _Tim, you keep cancelling our plans at the last minute because of work and that pisses me off.  Stop blowing me off._   Tim rubbed the back of his neck, sheepishly.  He had cancelled on Cassie on at least ten separate occasions over the last year.  _Damian, I want to spar with you so I can kick your ass and deflate your ego.  You are not the golden child just because you share Bruce’s DNA._ Damian puffed at that, but kept quiet. 

Cassie continued.  _Jason, you never talk to anyone about your problems or clue us in when you need help.  It causes unnecessary drama and creates a lot of tension in this house.  Tim’s right:  go to therapy.  Dick, you don’t dance with me anymore and I miss that.  Please start doing that with me again.  Bruce, talk to your damn family.  You have the ability and the capacity.  Fucking use it._   Cassie took a deep breath.  There were tears in her eyes.  _I also want some time with you outside of being Orphan.  You missed my dance recital and gave me a bullshit excuse.  I knew you were lying the minute you opened your mouth._   _And yes, I’m well aware when all of you are pissed off and you won’t use your words to solve your problems and I hate you all for it.  That’s something I want to be able to do, and all of you take it for granted.  That includes you too, Alfred._ She looked over at Dick.  “Wow,” she said after a sniffle, “I feel… better.  Thank you.”

“Damian’s turn,” said Dick.

Damian took the escrima stick with a scowl.  “This is pointless.”

“Talk.  No one moves until everyone has an honest go at it.”

Damian rolled his eyes and groaned.  “Fine.”  He looked around the room.  “Jason, stop stealing my shit.  I know I have better weapons than you.  If you ask, you may borrow them.  And stop threatening to kill Bat Cow.  She has feelings and you always hurt them.  That also applies to any of my other animals.  Father, I am well aware that I am a constant disappointment.”  Bruce frowned at that.  To his credit, Tim noted, he remained quiet.  “Every time I think I have done something well, I receive no positive feedback.  I’m not asking you to kiss my ass.  I want some verbal praise when I do something correctly.  Pennyworth, I’m well aware that you loathe the air I breathe.  Please be a little subtler about it. 

“Tim, I don’t understand you.  You don’t give any indication of having outside interests, so I don’t know how to even relate to you as a person, let alone a brother.  In short, you work too much and need to get a life.  Cassie,” Damian sighed.  “Dammit, you’re right.  But your physical skills are better than mine, and you won’t teach me your tricks.  I was raised by assassins.  I understand your background better than most.  I want to spend more time with you, but you don’t seem interested.  Dick,” Damian paused.  He swallowed before continuing in a small voice.  “You went right back to Bludhaven as soon as you could, and you don’t visit as much as you used to.  You’re the only one who really understands me, and I’m afraid to talk to you about my problems because I don’t want to burden you with anything.  I’m scared that you’ll leave me again.  I know I failed you, and I wish you would just come out and say it.”  Dick looked like he had been electrocuted with his own taser.   Damian passed the stick back to Dick and leaned into Dick’s torso.  Dick rubbed the kid’s shoulders.  _Damn_ , thought Tim, _the kid’s actually kind of… normal._  

Dick passed the baton to Jason, who passed it back to Dick.  “Everyone gets a go, even you Dickie,” said Jason with a smirk. 

Dick twirled the baton in his fingers.  He thought quietly.  “I don’t have anything to say.”

“I call bullshit,” said Cassie. 

Dick winced.  Everyone braced themselves.  Dick sighed.  He shook his head.  “Tim, pick up your damn phone when I call.  I’m not mother-henning you.  You’re depressed and so am I.  I need to not… feel… weak… for getting help.  That’s why I ask you about your meds and about your therapy.  I mother-hen you because I worry and I don’t know if I can lose another person in this family.”  Tim blinked rapidly.  That’s why Dick was calling him once a week?  Shit, now he felt like crap.  “Jason, get over yourself.  You are literally your own worst enemy.  Just when I think you’ve finally mended some bridges, you proceed to burn them and then wonder why everyone’s pissed at you.  Cassie, you need to get friends.”

“I have friends!” she said, indignant.  Tim winced.  Cassie was not the one he thought would be the first to break the rules. 

“I’m not done,” countered Dick.  “You need to get friends that you can hang out with that are your own age and do not have alter egos.  Cain was a bastard and I hope he burns in hell.  I keep hoping that you’ll go to school, and you don’t.  I know you’ve come a long way from what that son of a bitch taught you, but Barbara cannot tutor you forever.  I want you to get your G.E.D.  You too, Jason, by the way.  You’re too damn smart not to have it.”  Tim shook his head.  Of course, Dick would not go in a circular order.  “Damian, you’re thirteen not thirty.  Please try to enjoy being a kid and stop trying to prove that you’re better than everyone else.  I’m proud that you went to your school dance.  And you didn’t fail me.  You were knocked unconscious after being thrown through a wall.  You fought the best you could.”  He hugged Damian tightly.  “And I couldn’t let them get you.”

“Wait, what?” said Jason. 

“Darkseid ordered the parademons to go after Batman’s child.  Parademons take things literally.  If you told them to go around the room saying their names, they’d walk around the room chanting their designations.  They were scanning for Batman’s DNA, and that led them to the Manor.  That’s why they went after Damian so viciously,” said Dick in a monotone.  Damian had crawled into Dick’s lap.  Dick buried his nose in Damian’s hair. 

“Darkseid hates you,” Dick said to Bruce.  “He knows the easiest way to break you is to go after your children.  On that note, I love you.  But if you ever, ever, beat any of your children the way you did to me after I came back from the Murder Machine, I’ll kill you myself.”  Tim was surprised by both the quiet venom in Dick’s voice and the verbal threat.  “Alfred, I know he’s your employer, but please tell Bruce to go fuck himself when it’s appropriate.  You’re basically his foster-dad.  At this point, you’re entitled.”  Dick passed the baton to Jason, and rubbed Damian’s back.  Tim was still slightly shocked from Dick’s revelation regarding Darkseid’s motive.  Shit, he should have thought of that. 

“Well, damn,” said Jason as he twirled the escrima stick.  “All my issues seem trite at this point.  But what the hell?  Cassie, Alfred:  we’re good.  Tim, take a fucking nap or eat a Snickers.  Jesus wept.  Shit will still be there in the morning.  Damian,” Jason paused.  “You know, I’m pretty sure you know exactly how I feel about you, little twerp.  Since you’re having a moment, I’m going to skip you.”  Damian flipped him off, but didn’t argue.  “Bruce, I’m still disappointed that you haven’t put the fucking Joker in the fucking ground.  Every.  Year.  You even brought the son of a bitch back to life!  Why?  It’s on my letter to Santa every, fucking year.  Please.  The next time someone offs him, let him stay dead!  I’d also like to point out that I’m not the only person who’s killed someone.  Your spawn and your golden child have also killed people.  How come I’m the one who gets exiled?”

“You know, I was wondering the same thing,” said Cassie.

“I’m not done,” replied Jason as he held up a finger to silence her.  “Dick, I know you’re the eldest, but you need to stop acting like you’re fucking Atlas or something.  We can carry our own weight, and sometimes you have to let us.”

“Fair enough,” said Dick. 

“See?  Who needs therapy when we’ve got Festivus!  Here you go, B-man.”  Jason tossed the baton over to Bruce.  “Have fun.  Go nuts.”

Bruce caught the escrima stick easily.  His brow furrowed in thought.  “This is utterly pointless.”

“Participate, Father,” murmured Damian.  His voice was muffled by Dick’s shirt.

Bruce took a breath.  “Tim, please learn how to take a break.  I keep trying to arrange for vacation time for you, and you never take it.  Yes, those so-called cases in Europe are in fact a vacation at five-star hotels.  Go.  Drink wine.  Sleep in.  Sightsee.  Exhaustion does not help you in the long run.  Cassie… Dick’s right.  Please go to school.  I know I can’t make you do anything, but please try to further your education.  Damian, learn to follow directions.  I don’t give them because I’m a control freak –”

“That’s debatable,” muttered Jason.

Bruce threw him a stern glare before continuing.  “I give them because I don’t want to lose another child.  I lost you once.  I’m not losing you again.  Dick… Get a new therapist.  Your current choice will endanger the family.”  Dick narrowed his eyes.  Tim realized that father and son had already had this debate before.  “Jason, I’ve asked you a million times not to kill.  You keep violating the terms of our agreement, then act shocked when I deliver the consequences.  You understood the cause-effect relationship when you were Robin.  I don’t understand why you don’t get it now.”  Jason rolled his eyes. 

“Anything you want to say to Alfred?” asked Tim.

“No.  We’ve always known where we stood with each other.”

“Must be nice,” snarked Jason. 

Bruce glowered at his second eldest.  Jason seemed unfazed as he reached for one of the coffee cups.  He poured a mug for himself and slouched back into his seat, slurping loudly.  Tim could see one of the veins in Bruce’s forehead throbbing. 

“Alfred’s turn,” said Dick.

“Master Dick, it’s not entirely proper for me to –”

“Participate, Alfred,” Bruce grunted.  Alfred accepted the stick but looked uncomfortable.

“So, Alfie,” said Jason with a smirk, “how have we disappointed and/or pissed you off this year?”

Alfred looked at Bruce, who nodded.  “Frankly, not as much as in years previous.  Most of you won’t change your behavior despite this exercise, so I see no point in continuing.  I already discuss my concerns with each of you in turn, so I have nothing to report at this time.” 

“Damn,” said Jason, “I think I need some ice for that burn.”

Damian turned around indignant.  “Pennyworth.”

Alfred sighed.  “All of the concerns that I do have have already been voiced.  Although, I do appreciate Richard’s statement.  I shall, and often do.  Just when you’re not around.”  He rose.  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a dinner to prepare.”

“Where’s Duke and Stephanie,” said Tim, looking around the room.

“I got a call from Duke this morning.  His initial flight from San Francisco was cancelled.  He was able to get another flight, but he’s now held up in Charlotte.  There’s a blizzard in Chicago that’s screwing up most of the planes on the East Coast,” said Bruce.  “Stephanie is spending the holiday with Harper and her family.  I don’t know why.  But that reminds me:  Jason, she told me to tell you that you are a cheapskate.”

“Damn, they missed a Bat family tradition,” said Jason as he stretched.  “Need help with dinner, Alfie.”

“Please stop calling me that,” said Alfred, “I haven’t been called that since my grammar school days, and not by anyone I liked.  But your help with dinner would be appreciated.”

“Awesome,” said Jason with a stretch.

“Aren’t we forgetting something?” said Tim.  There was a wrapped shoebox under the tree that Tim had been trying to subtly investigate for the last week.  He was dying to know if his guess was correct.

Bruce sighed.  “Do we want to do presents now or after dinner?”

Tim, Cassie, and Jason raced to the tree.  Bruce followed them.  Damian got off of Dick’s lap and went to get a book.  Dick looked at him.

“You coming?”

“I’m Muslim,” stated Damian.  “This holiday means nothing to me.”

Dick rolled his eyes.  “Humor us.  We hold an Eid feast for you after Ramadan every year.”

Damian sucked his teeth.  “Fine,” he said as he stomped out of the room.  “For you.”

Dick smiled and ruffled Damian’s hair as he passed by.  Damian squawked in protest. 

There was already a sizable present mountain under the tree.  Cassie had started passing out presents.  “Maybe we should wait for Duke,” said Dick. 

“His flight won’t get in ‘til eight p.m. at the earliest,” said Bruce.  “I just got a text from him.  He mailed his presents ahead of time, and he’ll open his later.  He said it was ok for us to start without him.”

“Still feels wrong,” said Dick.  Cassie was in the process of gently shaking one of her presents.  She tore open the paper as everyone looked at her.

“What?” she froze, looking at all of family. 

“You’re supposed to announce who it’s from and thank them, heathen,” said Jason.  Tim winced.  Jason could have used a better word than “heathen.”

Cassie frowned at him.  “Not a heathen.  I never go first.  My turn this year.  From Tim,” she spat.  “Thanks.”  There was a flurry of paper shreds, and she squealed.  There was a new switchblade.  Bruce rolled his eyes.  That was the last thing she needed. 

She also got ballet shoe ribbons and a locket from Dick, a mobile translation device from Damian, a CD of traditional ballet music from Duke, a box of cleaning supplies from Alfred – which she did not seem to appreciate but made Alfred smirk – and a black hand-knitted ballet sweater from Jason.  Bruce gave her a check.  Cassie started collecting the ribbons from the presents and putting them into her hair.

“I thought you said you didn’t get anyone gifts,” Dick whispered to Jason.

“I didn’t exactly _buy_ anyone gifts,” whispered Jason in return.  “I dropped off my gifts when I came to see Damian off to his dance.  What?” whined Jason when Dick shot him a look.  “I’ve been kicked out of the family so many times that it’s just easier to drop off the gifts early and let Alfred put them out.”

Damian got video games from everyone except for Alfred and Dick.  Alfred gave him a coupon for piloting lessons.  Dick gave him a leather jacket.  “It’s probably too big for you right now,” he explained as Damian tried it on, “but you should grow into it.” 

“Was this yours?”

Dick nodded.  “I hope you don’t mind.”

“I like it.  Thank you.”

Bruce gave him a check.  Damian made a bitchface.  Apparently, there was a theme going.

Jason got a card from Damian that held a gift card to an army surplus store.  He also got a Save-Mart gift cards from both Tim and Duke.  Tim swore up and down that they did not get them together.  Jason shrugged; it would pay for some groceries.  Alfred gave Jason a gift card to a craft store.  Unbeknownst to his siblings, Jason had learned knitting and rather enjoyed it.  He had already received his gift from Dick.

“I didn’t think you were coming, so I don’t have anything for you.  See me later,” said Bruce.

“Are Artemis and Bizzaro coming for dinner?” asked Dick.

“Artemis doesn’t understand Christmas and Bizzaro hates the cold,” Jason said as he stuffed his gift cards into the same envelope.  “Also, I wasn’t even planning on coming today but _somebody_ locked me out of my houses.”  Jason leveled a glare at Dick who gave a look of fake innocence.

“You’re going to seek revenge, aren’t you?” said Cassie as she pulled the ribbons off of the unopened gifts and put them in her hair.  She looked like the future mascot for Party City. 

“Maybe.”

Tim dragged Alfred out of the kitchen to open his presents.  Alfred received a grey hand-knitted sweater from Jason, a box of his favorite English Breakfast tea and a box of Earl Gray tea from Harrods from Tim, two season tickets to the Gotham City Ballet from Cassie, and a _Game of Thrones_ cookbook from Duke.  Damian gave Alfred a framed drawing of Alfred the cat sitting on Alfred’s lap.  Alfred looked at Bruce.  “No check for me, sir?” he said with a wry smile.

“Ha. Ha,” said Bruce dryly.  “I’ve made a charitable contribution to RAINN in your honor this year.  I hope that’s acceptable.”

Alfred teared up.  “Thank you, sir.  My mother would be pleased.”

Dick gave Alfred a framed photograph of the whole family.

Tim received an empty card from Damian.  That was a not a surprise.  “You little fucker,” he muttered under his breath.  He got a gas gift card from Jason.  That was surprising.  He got a chess set from Alfred and a check from Bruce.  Duke had sent a copy of _Good Omens_ that had been autographed by Neil Gaiman.  Tim punched the air.  It was better than he had thought!  Cassie bought him a new set of shuriken.  Tim yelled when he opened Dick’s gift.  It was a photograph of him as a kid with the Flying Graysons.

“Holy shit!  I thought I lost this in the move!”  Tim’s face lit up with glee.  “Thanks, Dick!”      

“Dick goes next,” Cassie said, pointing to Dick.  Ribbons were now adorning her wrists. 

Dick shrugged.  It really did not matter to him.  The first gift was passed to him.  Dick examined the package carefully.  The tape was slightly yellowed.  The paper was dry and slightly wrinkled.  Tim saw Dick’s face soften as he realized that these were his gifts from last Christmas.  The Christmas that he missed. 

“You have others,” said Tim.  Dick’s head snapped up to look at his brother.  “But we thought it would be best to start with these.”

“We kept them,” said Cassie.  “I made sure no animals tried to get them.”

“We ate your cookies, though,” said Jason.  The younger Waynes glared at him.  “Ok, fine:  _I_ ate your cookies.  Sorry, not sorry.”

Dick rolled his eyes. 

The first one was a card from Jason that held a $15 Save-Mart gift card.  It looked like the one that Dick had gotten Jason for his birthday the year that Dick was abducted. 

“You regifted these gift cards, didn’t you?” asked Dick smugly.

“Shut.  Up.” Jason blushed and hid his face in his coffee mug. 

Tim had gotten him a “Greatest Hits of the 1980s” CD collection.  Damian had drawn him a picture of the view from Titans Tower.   Miraculously, the paper had not yellowed.  Bruce had actually put in some effort and bought him a new motorcycle helmet.  Cassie had given a jade dragon from her stint in Hong Kong.  There was nothing from Duke.  Dick was not offended by that; he had barely known Duke at the time.  Alfred had gotten him a copy of the plays of Oscar Wilde. 

Tim watched as Dick’s face fell slightly with each gift that was opened.  Dick opened his presents from this year.  Jason had made an azure blue cable knitted sweater.  Tim had bought Dick a copy of _The Ocean at the End of the Lane_ by Neil Gaiman.  It had been on Dick’s reading list for a while.  Cassie gave him new set of medicine balls.  Duke gave an aluminum model kit of a Spitfire airplane from WWII.  Alfred gave him a box of homemade fudge.  Damian gave him a Lindsey Stirling CD and a Pentatonix CD.  Bruce gave him a check.

Dick looked around at his family.  “Thank you all.  So much.”  He smiled, but Tim noticed that the mirth did not quite reach his eyes.  Tim knew what it was like to have those moments.  “Bruce, it’s your turn.”

Bruce also received a modest haul.  Damian had given him a drawing of Titus and Krypto the Super Dog.  Cassie also gave Bruce two tickets to the Gotham Ballet.  “You cannot blow me off anymore.  You have to go with me,” she said.  “Or Selina.  No one else.” Bruce smiled and agreed.

Tim and Duke had pulled together to get Bruce a new tablet.  He also received a knobbly, hand-knitted hat from Jason; clearly, one of the man’s first pieces.  Jason beamed with pride when Bruce pulled it on and proclaimed it an excellent gift. 

Dick gave Bruce a photo album with pictures of the whole family, as well as paraphernalia from each child’s life.  “I found the pictures,” he explained as Bruce stared at it in awe.  “Stephanie did all the artsy stuff.  It’s in chronological order as far as I can tell.”  Bruce ran his hand over the photographs, childhood drawings, report cards, and prize ribbons. 

“Thank you, Dick,” Bruce said softly.

With all of the presents opened, the family settled in for some quiet downtime in the drawing room before dinner.  Bruce leafed through the photo album.  Dick and Tim settled in with their books.  Jason went into the kitchen to help Alfred.  Damian went upstairs to get his sketchpad and settled into one of the couches. 

Snow fell outside the Manor, blanketing the world in white.  Everyone knew that dinner would be early.  Crime did not take a day off, not even for Christmas.

Alfred and Jason came into the drawing room and announced the start of dinner.  The family filed into the dining room. 

“So,” said Dick as he threw his arm around Jason.  “Still mad at me for locking you out of your safehouses?”

“Honestly, not anymore.  Pull that shit again and I’ll sh—” Jason’s face went white.  He blinked a few times before regaining his composure.  “I’ll beat the shit out of you.”

“You were going to threaten to shoot me, weren’t you?” Dick said with a laugh until he saw Jason’s expression.  His brows furrowed in concern.  “Are you ok?”

“Yeah, I… I don’t think I’m going to joke about that kind of thing with you anymore,” said Jason.  Dick frowned, but did not press.  He knew Jason would tell him in his own time.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, if you notice any errors, please let me know!


	22. Grounded

Superman knew something was up when Batman snapped at Cyborg and almost made the man cry during their February Justice League meeting.  Batman, being the emotionally constipated son of a bitch that he is, denied everything.  Superman decided to put his investigative reporting skills to good use and get down to the bottom of Bat’s problem.  Clark liked Bruce, but even he wondered how his family put up with his bullshit for as long as they had.

Normally, Superman’s first in-road to the Bat Family was Nightwing.  However, Nightwing wasn’t picking up his phone.  Instead, Superman decided to go right to the source.  Chances were at least one of the Batkids would be there and would direct him to their eldest brother.  If not them, then Alfred might help provide some clues into Batman’s emotional issue du jour.  Superman walked into the cave where Cassandra was manning the Batcomputer.  She had broken her leg in an engagement with Killer Croc and was on four weeks of bedrest.  Her leg was stretched out before her while she watched the family’s various missions on the Batcomputer.  “I’m looking for Nightwing.  Have you seen him?” said Superman.

“He is… grounded.  No more patrol.  Forever.”

“What?  Why?”

“He… busted a man’s balls,” said Cassandra slowly. 

Superman frowned skeptically.  “I don’t see how a severe talking-to would cause Batman to react in that manner.”

“No… he… busted a… rapist’s balls.  Squished them both.  Like a… grape,” said Cassandra as Superman’s face blanched.  “I’m very proud,” she asserted. 

Cassandra had to give some credit to Superman.  His body language screamed revulsion and terror.  His vocal tone was somehow still light when he finally began to speak again.  “Oh,” said Superman in a slightly higher pitch than he normally used.  “I… see… thanks, Orphan.”

“I… would not… speak?  Talk?  To either of them right now.  They’re both very angry.  Nightwing especially.”

“What did Batman say?” asked Superman.  He was clearly concerned; every line of his body was filled with worry and curiosity.

“Don’t know.  Heard… loud talking.  Then, Nightwing left.  No goodbyes.  Just, out the door.”  Cassandra typed some information to Red Robin and sent the message.  “His body screamed fury.  Batman’s was… sad and worry and fury.”  She shrugged.  “But Batman is always sad.  This was a different sad, though.”  She watched Red Hood get punched in the face.  “Haven’t heard from him since.”

Superman sighed.  “I’ll talk to Bruce,” he said resignedly. 

“Please.  Don’t like conflict.  In family.” 

It didn’t take long to find Bruce.  Bruce had at least six different vantage points in the city that he favored during his patrol.  Also, Damian had told Superman via Jonathan which areas were most likely to be patrolled by the Bat at various points in the night.  Although Batman varied his patrols nightly, there were certain areas that were bound to be troublesome regardless of the time of year.  Superman wondered how Batman managed to get to the top of the Wayne Enterprise building without flying or falling.  These suppositions only added to Superman’s belief that Batman was slightly insane. 

Batman was there, brooding as he watched over his city.  Superman hovered in front of him, well out of arm’s reach.  Superman wasn’t an idiot; he knew Batman would try to take a swing at him. 

“Batman,” said Superman cordially.

Batman glared.  “You’re blocking my view.  Move.”

“What’s going on?”

“Allegedly, the Penguin and Black Mask are about to initiate a gang war, and I’d like to disrupt their plans.  Which I can’t do, if I can’t see them.  So, move.”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”

Batman growled softly.  “State your purpose then get the hell out of my face.”

“Something’s up.  Are you ok?”

“Are you my therapist now?  Are we doing our yearly psych evals so soon?  Because I am not in the mood –”

“As a friend,” said Superman harshly.  “I’m asking you:  what happened to piss you off this time?”

“I’m fine,” snarled Batman. 

“You almost made Victor cry in our monthly meeting yesterday.”

“His figures were off.”

“You really wanted to make him cry because he underestimated our budgetary figures by two dollars?” said Superman, holding up two fingers to emphasize his point.  “You’re not that anal-retentive when it comes to money, Mr. Thinks-Fifty-Bucks-Is-Cheap.”

“It really is not that much money.”

“For you.  For the rest of us, it’s pretty substantial.  Two dollars, however, is not unless you are really broke.  And believe me, I have been there when two dollars is, in fact, a big deal.  So, is there a particular reason why you’re mad at Victor or were you just being a dick?”

Batman glared at Superman.  “Yeah,” said Superman.  “That doesn’t work on me anymore.  Talk, or I’ll slap you off of this rooftop.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Do you want to bet?  Seriously,” Superman opened his arms wide, “you’ve listened to me when I’ve had marital issues with my wife –”

“And you don’t take my advice anyway –” groused Batman.

“And friends listen to each other’s problems.  What the hell’s gotten under your cowl?”

Batman rolled his eyes.  “You’re going to follow me all night unless I talk, aren’t you?”

“I have Agent A’s full blessing to do so, so yes.”

Batman groaned and sat down cross-legged on the edge of the Wayne Enterprises building.  “I hate you,” he snarled.  Superman sat down next to him, dangling his legs off of the edge of the building.  The pair stared out at the city in silence.  Gotham, unlike Metropolis, always had a dingy haze about it that made the city look both ethereal and hellish.  Superman was convinced that the sky was never blue in Gotham.  “Dick’s psychiatrist is Harley Quinn,” Batman said.

Superman’s brows knitted together in confusion.  “Wait, like, the Joker’s ex, Harley Quinn?”  He put his fists up to the side of his head to mimic pigtails.  “Harley Quinn, Harley Quinn?

Batman looked at Superman incredulously.  “How many Harley Quinns do we know?”

“Fair enough,” Superman conceded.  “I mean, wow… that’s… an interesting choice.”

“A stupid choice.  She could use any information she obtains against us.  Against him.”

“I don’t know.  Ever since she got roped into Waller’s little ‘secret’ team, she’s been trying to turn over a new leaf.”  Superman had used finger quotes around the word “secret” – everyone in the hero community knew about Amanda Waller’s Suicide Squad and CADMUS.  “I’m glad to see that she’s actually going back to what she had trained for.  Good for her.”

“She’s a psychopath,” said Batman bluntly. 

Superman was tempted to point out Batman’s hypocrisy regarding someone’s mental state, but knew that it would immediately end the conversation.  “She was also tortured by her sadistic ex.  It’s a marvel that he didn’t kill her.  God knows what he did to her behind closed doors.”  Superman shuddered.  Domestic abuse was not a thing to be taken lightly, and the fact that people admired the abusive relationship between Harley Quinn and the Joker bothered Superman to no end.  There were so many other power couples whose loyalty could be lauded.  He could not fathom why those psychopaths had captured the public’s imagination.  “I’m sure that may have contributed to Nightwing's reasons for choosing her.”

“I gave him a list of the best psychiatrists in the nation.  She’s not helping him.”

“Did you actually talk to your son about that?”  One look at Batman’s face confirmed Superman’s suspicions.  “You jumped off the cliff of conclusions, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t jump off of a cliff, and my conclusions were sound.  She’s got him on some high blood pressure medication, not antidepressants.  And he’s been more aggressive and abrasive since he started patrolling on his own.  Whatever she’s doing, it isn’t working.”

“Didn’t you put the Black Mask in traction a few months ago?”

“I had my reasons,” Batman muttered sullenly. 

“Bless your heart,” said Superman, “you don’t even hear yourself, do you?”

“Did Diana put you up to this?”

“No, and you’re not changing topics that easily.  Did it ever occur to you that I get it?  Being a dad is rough.  But Dick’s an adult.  Did you try talking to him?”

“I said my piece.  He said his.  He’s off the roster until he gets himself in a better condition.”

“Br-B, he’s improved a lot since he got back a year ago.  He’s not going to be a hundred percent.  That’s not how mental illness works.  It sounds like you two had a massive fight over this, and that neither of you were listening to each other.  I get it; you’re scared.”  Batman opened his mouth to protest.  Superman raised his hand to stop him.  “You won’t admit it, but you are.  You love your kids, and every time one of them dies or is seriously hurt, you become a wreck.  You ain’t the cuddliest person in the world, but you do care very much for your children.  I get it.  Believe me, I get it.  Every time my son and Da-er, Robin go out on patrol, I’m afraid he won’t come home.  This is not what I wanted for him.  Maybe he’ll grow out of it, and decide to live a normal life.  Maybe this is his life.  I live in constant fear of the same thing you do.”  Superman looked down at the street below.  “It’s only a matter of time before Darkseid finds out about my kid.  I’m scared to death that that day will come.  But at some point, we have to trust our kids will make the right choices.”

“Did you just use the word ‘ain’t’ in an actual sentence?”

Superman blinked.  “That’s… that’s what you heard?  Out of… wow.  Ok.  You are going to be a dick today.”

“Nightwing is one every day.”

“Ha, ha, not funny.  That joke is so old, it’s cashing Social Security.”  Superman shook his head and sighed.  “Seriously, call your son.  Say you’re sorry.”

“Why should I apologize?  I didn’t send a guy to the hospital with testicular rupture and I told Nightwing what he needed to do at Christmas, and he hasn’t done it.”

“Take one for the team so that way Victor won’t be on pins and needles when we meet in March.  Say you’re sorry for being an insensitive douchebag – even if you don’t mean it – and actually _listen_ when he talks about his treatment plan.  You may be surprised to learn that you raised a good man.”

“It… might not be that simple.”

Superman rolled his eyes.  Emotional talks with Batman were a lesson in patience.  “Why not?”

“It… got... personal.  Fast.  That part was my fault, I’ll concede that point.”

Superman pinched the bridge of his nose.  “So, you _did_ do something to piss Nightwing off, and now you’re taking your frustrations out on everyone else because you don’t want to apologize for it?”

Police sirens sounded on the street below.  Batman started and honed in on the noise.  “I’ve got to go,” he said as he stood abruptly. 

Superman frowned.  “We’re not done.”

“I am.”  Batman leapt off of the rooftop and deployed his grapple.  Superman put his head in his hands and shook his head as Batman swung away.  The Bat Family was a damn mess.  Superman sighed.  Perhaps it would be better to wait until Nightwing called him.  He relayed what information he knew back to Cassandra.  His phone beeped.  It was Jonathan, asking for help on a case that he and Damian were working.  Superman sighed.  Hopefully, the youngest bat would be more rational than his patriarch. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick linguistic note: In the Southeastern part of the United States, the phrase "bless your heart" is a polite way of saying "Wow, f*** you." Considering that Superman is from Kansas and Kansas has close ties to Southern culture despite being in the Midwest, it seemed appropriate. 
> 
> Things are going to get dark from here, just fyi. 
> 
> Also, I hope those of you in Florida were able to get out before Hurricane Michael hit. He bitch-slapped my area on Thursday afternoon. I just got power back today, and there are still others in my county who won't get power until Monday. Stay safe, humans and other life forms.


	23. Bioshock

Everything hurt. 

Jason knew that he could drive his motorcycle back to one of his warm, comfy safehouses in Gotham.  His mission, however, had taken him to Bludhaven.  He knew that Dick had been secretly patrolling despite being forcibly retired by Batman last month.  Which meant, to Jason’s aching head, that he could technically crash at Grayson’s apartment. 

“Dick,” he yelled as he crawled into one of the windows.  “I’m crashing in your spare bed.  Don’t be naked,” Jason added as an afterthought.

Some sort of godawful smell hit his nose.  “Goddamn,” Jason nearly retched.  The room was a damn mess.  There were half-filled cereal bowls scattered around the living space.  Clothing was piled up everywhere, to the point where Jason could not tell which ones were clean and which ones were not.  Jason went to the nearest bowl and noticed, to his horror, that the milk was starting to congeal. 

“Nope,” said Jason, “Nope, nope, nope, with a side of nope.”  He found the nearest sink and dumped that bowl down the drain.  He turned on the garbage disposal and ran water to flush it.  “Nope.  Nope.  Nope,” Jason muttered to himself as he searched for rubber gloves to begin cleaning up the mess.

Thirty minutes later, Jason had barely made a dent into the disaster.  He was half tempted to run out and get a dust mask from Save-Mart.  As Jason was mentally preparing himself to attack the bathroom starting with the whiskers left on the sink, Dick arrived home from patrol. 

Dick looked blankly at Jason.  “What are you doing in my house?”

“House?” snarked Jason.  “This isn’t a house.  This is a biohazardous waste plant.”

Dick looked around at the mess.  “I was going to get around to it.  Eventually.”  He shrugged off his Nightwing shirt and threw it onto the floor. 

Jason’s eyebrows shot to his hairline. “Eventually.  Look-look-look-look at this!”  He shoved one of the cereal bowls in Dick’s face.  “This isn’t food anymore, Dick!  This is Damian’s science fair project!  This is a lesson in microbiological Darwinism!”  Jason shoved it into the sink.  “What-what,” his voice reached a near shriek, “what is that?”  He nudged some sort of puce colored cloth with his foot.  “I swear this thing was alive!  How do you not have _roaches_?”  Jason shuddered. 

Dick seemed completely apathetic.  “I told you, I was going to get around to it.”  Dick went to the fridge, opened the milk, made a sour face, and put it back in the fridge. 

“No, no, no!” yelled Jason, snatching the milk from Dick’s hands.  “If it’s off, it goes in the bin.”  He tossed it in the bin.   “How do your neighbors not smell this?”

Dick grabbed a glass of questionable cleanliness and poured some water into it.  “They don’t ask questions.  Kind of a theme here in Bludhaven.  I can take care of myself you know.”  He put the glass in the sink after he drained it.

“When’s the last time you had a shower?” asked Jason as he started putting dirty paper plates into a garbage bag. 

Dick sniffed under his armpit.  “I’m probably going to have one when you leave.”

“How’s about you help me pick up this area, then you can take your shower first, then I’ll take my shower after?”

Dick looked around the apartment.  He sighed.  “You’re going to tell Bruce about this, aren’t you?” he asked resignedly. 

Jason stopped after dumping an old pizza box into the garbage bag.  “No,” he said softly, “but you and me, _we_ are going to talk about this after we shower.  Ok?”

Dick rubbed the back of his neck and put the dish in the other side of the sink.  “I guess.”

Together, the pair got the kitchen area livable.  Dick went to take his shower.  Jason waited until he was certain that the water was running, then began picking up in the living room area.  He did not want to know the state of Dick’s bedroom, if this was what the kitchen and living room looked like. 

By the time Dick had finished his shower, Jason had picked up the trash and begun spraying and wiping down the various grimy surfaces of the living room.  He could feel the layers of slime forming on his skin.  Jason shuddered at the state of the bathroom – seriously, who left that many whiskers on the sink after they were done shaving?  -- and quickly showered.  He came out, towel drying his hair and clad in his boxer shorts. 

Dick kicked Jason’s discarded uniform.  “There’s blood on your uniform,” he stated bluntly.  “Did you kill someone?”

“So, what if I did?” retorted Jason defensively.

“Did they deserve it?”

“Yes,” said Jason as he mentally prepared his whole justification for killing that raping, murdering, son of a –

“Good.”  Dick plopped onto the couch and turned on the TV.  He quickly switched away from the late night ultra-Christian televangelists and settled on a nature show. 

Jason’s brain had to take a minute to reboot.  Dick Grayson had just dismissed a murder.  No lecture.  No pointless guilt trips.  No “you dishonor the whole family” diatribe.  “Wait,” he sputtered as his brain restarted.  “What?  No:  Dishonor on you, dishonor on your cow, speech?  I murdered a guy, Dick!” Jason repeated emphatically.

Dick looked up at his brother from his seat on the couch.  “I mean,” he shrugged, “kudos to you for trying to stick to Batman’s moral code for all these years.  But all in all, I’m pretty sure you’re not going to go offing people because it’s a Thursday or you’re bored.  Some fuckers just need killing.  And Bruce’ll get over it eventually.” Dick changed the channel on the TV.

Jason’s brain flatlined.  His jaw dropped.  He tried to speak, but only managed to make several unintelligible croaking sounds. 

Dick muted the TV and turned to fully face Jason.  “Are you going to stand there all night looking like a dying fish, or are you going to take a seat?”  He motioned to the empty spot on the couch.

“Who are you and the fuck have you done to my brother?” Jason finally forced out, still stunned.

Dick sighed and flopped his head back onto the back of the couch before cursing under his breath.  “Look, Jay,” Dick said bluntly, “if you want absolution, there’s a Catholic church about three blocks from here called St. Jude’s.  The priest’s name is Father Dominic, and I’m sure he’ll be more than happy to help you if you tell him that Nightwing sent you.  I know you know the rosary because I taught it to you.”  Dick changed the channel.  Apparently, it was not actually a nature show, but an infomercial for a kid’s nature magazine. 

“That’s… not… what I meant.”  Jason waved his arm at Dick.  “This, right here, where the hell did _this_ come from?”

“Bruce tell you why I got taken off the roster?”

“I haven’t spoken to Bruce since our pow-wow at Christmas.  I’ve maxed out my quota of Bat-Daddy Dearest moments for the next six months, thank you very much,” Jason crossed in front of Dick and flopped onto the other side of the couch.  “But I heard the fight was epic.”

“That’s not the word I’d use to describe it.”

“Ok, then how would you describe it.”

“Personal.”

“Damn,” said Jason, frowning.  “How personal is personal?”

“I ghetto-stomped a rapist’s balls to jelly after I caught him in the act.  Batman stopped me from stomping his face in and started questioning my mental fitness.  I started laughing, because – let’s face it – it’s hilarious coming from him.  He accused me of putting the family in danger because of my choice of psychiatrist.  I told him that he was lucky we didn’t get taken by CYS because of all the shit he’s pulled.  It escalated from there.  I’m pretty sure I dragged your name into it – sorry about that, by the way.” Dick sucked his teeth and took a few breaths before continuing.  “Then he told me that he knew.”  Dick nodded his head and sighed.  “He said he knew what I did there.  And he… didn’t want me near Damian anymore.  Especially unsupervised and in the field.  ‘Robin’s worked hard to overcome his worst impulses and you will not help him in that regard if you continue like this.’” Dick mimicked Bruce’s voice rather well.  He looked at his hands.  His jaw clenched. 

Jason stared at Dick.  Damn, it did get personal.  He had to admit:  using Damian against Dick was the lowest blow Bruce could deliver.  Even Jason didn’t know exactly what Dick did to survive on Apokalips.  Frankly, he didn’t want to know.  Jason had enough nightmare material to last a lifetime.  Jason rose, went to the sink, and got two clean glasses full of water.  He gave one to Dick.  “Like he hasn’t done questionable things.  Resurrecting the Joker ranks pretty high on my list.”

Dick scoffed before taking a quick sip.  There were faint tears in the corners of his eyes.  “The bitch of it is:  he’s not wrong.  I did things there that make the worst you’ve done look tame.”  Dick closed his eyes and shook his head.  “I can’t… I literally am the last person on the planet with any moral authority to criticize you for your field decisions.”

Jason’s cup hovered by his lips as his arm rested on the side of the couch.  “That’s different though,” he countered.  “You had to play along.  You had to follow orders or they would have killed you.”

“Not the first person in history to use that argument,” Dick responded glumly.  “And it didn’t work for them either.”

Jason put his feet up on Dick’s coffee table and rested his glass on his thigh.  “Bruce is an ass.”

“He… means well.”

“I’m not done.  Bruce’s all fine and fatherly when everything goes smoothly.  When shit hits the fan and it’s nothing he can control, he becomes a self-righteous, autocratic sociopath.  Despite all of his manipulations, he keeps forgetting that not only are we trained in his methods, but we also have minds of our own.”  Jason took a deep gulp of his water.  “His shit’s, like, a universal fucking constant.”  Jason leaned back and looked at the ceiling.  “Believe me, what happened to you is one of the worst fucking things I’ve ever seen happen to you here, there, and everywhere.”

“I still don’t understand this fucking multiverse stuff,” muttered Dick.

Jason pondered that for a minute.  “Do you remember those R.L. Stine pick-your-own destiny books when we were kids?  Y’know, the ones where, like, you read a few pages and then if you made one choice you flipped to one page but if you made a different choice you flipped to another page?  I’m pretty sure there was only one path that got you out safely – ‘cause it’s R.L. Stine – but you still had fun trying to figure out your way through it?”

“Sort of, yeah.”

“The multiverse is kind of like that.  Except it’s, like, the size of four thousand telephone books and you don’t get the chance to flip back if you hate your ending.”

“Is it weird that that actually makes sense to me?”

“That’s how I see it, anyway.”

“When did you start seeing it?  Is it from the –”

“Honestly, I have no fucking clue.  If I had to hazard a guess, it’s probably a residual effect from when Donna, Roy, and I went on our trip in our little rocket ship with Bob the Monitor.  Either that, or it’s a carry-over from my resurrection that was dormant until it got activated when I _Little Einstein_ ed the multiverse before all the shit went down.  I dunno.  Either way, there’s no way you can go around messing with the powers that screw and come out unscathed.”

“I don’t know how you deal with it,” said Dick with a hint of awe.  “It’d drive me crazy.”

Jason shrugged.  “I just get little snippets of it.  Like, a deep-seated feeling of déjà vu or jamais vu.  For example, part of me is kind of happy with this reality:  I’m tolerated in the Manor most of the time, I get normal holidays, Batman doesn’t hate me as much as he could.  But then part of me is, like, there’s something wrong here.  I’m missing key pieces of my life and I don’t know where they are.  Or like, shit’s way too good for me and I should be waiting for the other shoe to drop.  Occasionally, I’ll get image flashes like Raven on _That’s So Raven_.  That kind of fucks up my day.”

Dick ran his fingers through his hair.  “Damn,” he murmured.  “How do you cope with that?”

“I don’t read too much into it.  No point in tearing my hair out over shit I can’t control.  To many butterflies flapping their wings for me to keep count of them all.  Not my circus –”

“Not my monkeys,” Dick finished.  He watched a snow leopard chase its prey on TV.  “At the risk of sounding egotistical, what are some other worst things you’ve seen regarding me?”

“Well, we all saw the Jokerized Robins, so that’s like number one.  I think in one universe you get paralyzed and become Oracle, which is kind of cool in its own way.  You get shot in the head in another universe.”

“I’ve been shot in the head before.  Dr. Hurt put a .32 caliber bullet near my brain stem.”

“Nah, this one… No idea how you even survived it, actually.  It was a through-and-through,” Jason traced the path on his head.  Dick’s face blanched.  “Sniper.  Fucked you up.  Took out your temporal lobe.  Forgot all about the family and being Nightwing.  Started to take my shtick.  Not the worst, but… it’d still suck.”

“Is that why you said you’d stop joking about shooting me at Christmas?  You saw it happen?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“What about you?” asked Dick gently. 

“What about me?”

“Do you get any happy endings in any of these places?”

Jason scratched his head and pursed his lips.  “Yeah,” he determined after some thought, “a few.  I became a priest in one – which is weird because I’m not Catholic.  But that’s part of the reason why, after we got our shit together, I asked you to teach me the rosary.  A couple I actually survive the blast that killed me.  But then Timmy’s life gets all fucked up, and I kind of feel bad about that.”

Dick grunted.  Jason continued, “But that’s the nice thing about this whole multiverse thing:  it’s not all set in stone.  Yeah, shit sucks, but it could always be better and it could always be worse.  Not going to lie, still a little worried about the lack of hygiene issue here.  Never seen that before.”

“I told you, I was going to get around to it.”

“When?”

“When I fucking got around to it.”

“Which was going to be, when?  Saturday?  Tuesday?  February 30th?”  Jason looked at his brother.  “Tell you what:  take the day off tomorrow.  Call off work, keep the costume in the closet.  I’ll help you clean up this place to a more livable standard, then we can watch the trash TV of your choosing and eat semi-sort of healthy take out.  I’m 85% sure I’m slightly concussed and need to stay awake anyway, your apartment needs to be cleaned, I like to clean.  It’s a win-win for both of us.”

Dick rested his head on his brother’s shoulder.  “Thanks, Jay,” he whispered.

Jay put his arm around his older brother.  “Fuck Batman.  You need us, you call.  And I’m apologizing in advance for any criticisms I lob your way.  Don’t take it personally; I’m a judgmental and spiteful bitch.” 

“Bianca Del Rio is your spirit animal,” Dick muttered as he fell asleep.

“You know it.”


	24. Dance, Ballerina, Dance

The audience roared in appreciation as Cassandra and the other members of the corps de ballet strode out to take their bows.  Somewhere out in the sea of darkened faces was Alfred Pennyworth.  Bruce had, once again, bailed at the last minute because of a Justice League issue.  Tim was genuinely disappointed that he missed Cassie’s debut in Gotham City Ballet Company’s _Cinderella_.  He had a doctor's appointment that he had already cancelled four times.  Cassie understood.  Ever since his splenectomy, Tim had to be very careful with his health.  He texted her at intermission to let her know that he was definitely coming to the matinee tomorrow. 

Cassie had never felt so proud of herself.  This was something that she had done for herself on her own terms with her own expectations.  

The chance came out of the blue.

The envelope appeared in her apartment’s mailbox.  She had developed the habit of checking it to see if Bruce sent checks for rent and groceries.  Cassie enjoyed having her own place and following her own routines.  The envelope was relatively nondescript.  Inside was a flyer and a letter.

The flyer was for the Gotham City Ballet Company.  They were looking for some new dancers for the spring season.  The first show would be the first week of April.  Auditions were in early March.  Accompanying the flyer was a note from Dick.

_Give it a shot.  Love, Dick._

She made a special trip to Bludhaven to meet Dick on patrol that night, armed with potential arguments about why it was a bad idea.

“I can’t read,” she began as soon as she saw Nightwing.  Nightwing was not supposed to be on patrol.  Then again, it was almost a Bat Family tradition to do the exact opposite of what Batman had ordered.

“Not true,” said Dick.  “You’re reading at a fourth-grade level, and improving every day.  And if you need help with any forms or taxes, you know the family will pitch in to help you.”

“I am not good with people.”

“You have enough social graces to get through a Wayne Enterprises gala.  And you’ve got the attitude to handle the high-pressure environment of professional dancing.”

“I’m not a trained dancer.”

“You’ve been stalking the ballet dancers since you arrived in Gotham.  I’m sure you’ve picked up a few things, including the terminology.”  Dick smiled.  “What else you got?”

Nothing.  That’s all she had.  “I’ll mess up all of my pointe shoes.”  She loved wearing them instead of sneakers.  

“Bruce will buy you more.  It’s about time he learned how to spoil a daughter.”  If Dick saw Cassie blush under her Orphan face covering, she would deny it to her dying day. 

“It’ll interfere with my… patrol duties.”

“Ballerinas are hired under one-year contracts.  Dance for a year.  If you hate it, don’t reup.”  Dick smirked.  “I know how to use Google, Cassie.  I came prepared, too.”

Dammit.  She glared at him.  “Look,” he said, softening, “just audition, ok?  There’s no guarantee that you’ll even make it into the company.  Haven’t you ever wondered what it would be like to be onstage with them, rather than watching from the audience during every performance?”

Truthfully, she had wondered what it would be like since the moment she laid eyes on her first ballerina.  She had scared the poor person out of her wits, but it had been worth it to learn the beauty in her body’s motion.  “What if I… accidentally kill someone?”

Dick threw a bitchface.  “You have more control over your body than anyone else I know.  You know how and when to hold back.  Just try once.  Once.  And we’ll never talk about it again.  Ok?”

Cassie agreed.  She practiced for two weeks in her studio among the martial arts dummies and weaponry.  She had chosen a song from _Cinderella_ and choreographed it herself. 

They hired her on the spot. 

It was nice.  The prima ballerina, a woman named Sarah Meyars, hated Cassandra the minute she started dancing.  Cassie did not care.  It was freeing, being able to sing with her body and to be among those who appreciated the joy of movement.  Her days were filled with non-stop dancing.  There was at least two hours of classes followed by four to six hours of rehearsals, five days a week.  The pace was brutal.  The instructors were demanding.  However, Cassandra Cain had survived training with her father.  She could survive anything. 

Sarah Meyars finished taking her bow, and the curtain closed.  Almost immediately, Cassie was being hugged by Szarlota and Yazmine.  Szarlota and Yazmine were also members of the corps de ballet.  Yazmine had been in the company for three years.  Szarlota had been in for four.  The two women were the closest things to friends that Cassie had ever had. 

The trio made their way back to the dressing rooms.  “Did your,” Cassie struggled to remember the word that Yazmine had used, “abuela make it to the performance?  I know they were driving up from… New York?”

Yazmine nodded vigorously.  “My mom texted me at intermission.  She said my abuela can’t wait to see me.  She’s never been to the ballet before.  I’m so glad that I was able to get discounted tickets!”

Szarlota smiled.  Her family had been dancers in Poland.  She had grown up in the theatre, and understood how awe-inspiring the first trip could be. 

Cassie smiled.  “I am… happy for you!”

She loved her friends.  They were patient when she struggled to speak English.  They thought her lack of social graces was cute.  She had even ditched patrol last Friday to join them for a night of barhopping. 

Her feet were killing her, and she could not wait to get them on ice.  This pain, Cassie decided, was a good pain.  She was packing up her stuff when Yazmine hit her on the arm.  They were among the last to leave.  

“Cassie,” squealed Yazmine, “you sly bitch!”  Cassie was jarred from her reverie and glared at her friend.  “You never told us you had a boyfriend!”

“I don’t,” she began.  She looked in the doorway of the dressing room. 

It was Dick.  He was beaming and held a bouquet of dog rose, white hollyhock, and amaryllis. 

Cassie squealed and ran towards her brother.  She leapt into his arms for a hug.  Dick’s hugs were the best.  Not too tight, not too loose.  Just the right amount of pressure and warmth to make the experience comfortable.  As she stepped back, she noticed that there was something off about his body language. 

_You look sad,_ she signed. 

Dick’s eyebrow’s shot up in surprise.  _Rough week_ , he signed as he put the flowers in the crook of his arm.  _I’m ok._   He hugged her again.  “I’m so proud of you,” he muttered into her bun.  She felt his head pick up slightly. 

“Is Alfred here?” she asked.

“Yep.  Who do you think gave me the ticket?”  His grip tightened.  “Who are your friends?” he asked, breaking the hug.

Cassie ran back to her dresser and pulled over her friends.  “Dick, this is Yazmine Gonzales-Ramirez and Szarlota Zieliński.  They dance with me in the back.”

“Personally,” said Szarlota, “I think Cassandra should be in the front.  We all know how that przeklęta kurwa of a prima ballerina got her job anyway.”

“Szar!” snapped Yazmine. 

“Dziękuję,” said Dick.  Szarlota’s jaw dropped.  “Don’t get too excited,” he said holding his hands up.  “That’s the only word I know in Polish!”

They laughed.  “Look, Cassie, I’ve got to run,” said Szarlota.  “Don’t stay out too late!  Rehearsal in the morning!”

Cassie waved goodbye as Szarlota put her earbuds in and walked past Dick.  Yazmine gave her a quick wave as her phone exploded into a large stream of buzzing.  “My family’s outside the stage door, gotta run!”

Cassie shook her head with a fond smile.  “Do you have to dash, too?”

Dick shook his head.  “Nope.  Free for the day.  I’m going with Alfred to pick up Damian from Jonathan’s house later, though.”

“Have you and Bruce,” Cassie started to ask as she went back to her dresser to get her bag.

“No.  And I don’t plan on it.  We said what we needed to say.  Besides, today is about you and your triumph!”

“It was only one show,” Cassie said, shouldering her bag.

“One of many.”  Dick shrugged.  “You have to start somewhere.”  He handed her the flowers.  Cassie put them up to her nose and inhaled the sweet scents.  Dick slung his arm around her shoulders.  “I’m so proud of you.”

“You already said that.”

“I’m saying it again.  I’m so glad I got to see you on stage.”

Cassie blushed.  She leaned into her brother.  “Thank you for telling me about this, Dick.  I don’t know if I would have done it otherwise.”  They left the dressing room and went to meet Alfred in the front lobby. 

“I love you.  You know that, right?”

“I know.  I love you, too.” 


	25. Defense

Pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow

“BATMAAAAN!”

Pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow-pow

“BATMAAAN!”

Barbara Gordon watched in exasperation as Harley Quinn stood in front of the Information Sciences building and fired off another eight rounds from the semi-automatic rifle into the air.  After every eight rounds, Harley bellowed for Batman with increasing frustration and rage.  The GCPD had created a perimeter around campus, and all classes had been cancelled for the day.

Barbara had missed the lockdown warning.  She was more preoccupied with practicing responses for her doctoral dissertation defense to pay attention to her surroundings.  Now, as she struggled into her Batgirl costume in a cold back alley that smelled like urine, Barbara officially decided that she gave no fucks today. 

She walked out of the alley toward Harley, who was still bellowing for Batman.  Barbara sighed.  “What the fuck, Harley?” she yelled, fully exasperated.  She waved her arms for emphasis.

“Oh, hiya Batgirl!”  Harley lowered her gun and waved.  “Look, as much as I love our tangoes, I’m lookin’ for yer boss.”

“He’s not here,” Barbara sighed.  “How may I help you?”

Harley let off a few rounds to scare the cops that had tried to sneak up behind her.  “What’s with you today?”

“Look, I’ve got my defense today, and you –”

“You’re gettin’ yer DOCTORATE!”  Harley bounded over to Batgirl.  Batgirl squawked as Harley pulled her into a bone crushing hug.  “In what?”

“Library and Information Sciences,” Barbara gritted.  Harley was crushing her rib cage.

Harley hugged Barbara tighter.  “You’re gonna be a LIBRARIAN!” Her voice rose an octave.  “Moldin’ young minds, one book at a time!”  Her voice rose even higher.  “I’m so proud,” she squeaked. 

Barbara, who was getting an up close and personal understanding of how a boa constrictor kills its prey, choked out, “Thanks.  Harley.  Can’t.  Breathe.”

“Oh, sorry,” Harley released her.  “Look, I’ll move my little protest somewhere else then.  Good luck!”

“Woah!  Woah!” Barbara raised her hands.  “Why are you protesting?”

“I need to talk to yer boss.  He’s got information that I need.  Desperately.”

“Which is?”

“A working phone number for Nightwing.” 

Barbara frowned.  It suddenly occurred to her that she had not heard from Dick since Valentine’s Day.  It was the sixth of April.  “I have his phone number.  Do you want me to call him?”

“Please.”

Shaking her head, Barbara fished her cell phone out of her utility belt.  She scrolled down to “Boy Wonder” and hit dial.  She put it on speaker for Harley’s benefit.  A dial tone rang before a message played.

_The number you are trying to reach is no longer in service._

“Ok,” said Harley.  “So, it’s not just me.  That’s not good.”   

“Why are you trying to call Nightwing?”

Harley sighed.  “He hasn’t shown up for his therapy appointments since the end of February.  That’s six missed appointments.  If he has a different psychiatrist, wonderful, but I wish he had told me so I can send his records to his new doctor.  For a guy who’s usually prompt, it’s a little disconcerting.”  Barbara blinked.  She had forgotten that Harley was Dick’s psychiatrist.  She was not sure if that was a wise decision on Dick’s part.  Now, she realized it probably was.  Most doctors would have written off the no-shows.  She tried again.  The same response.  Barbara was officially freaked out. 

“So, as I said, I need to talk to yer boss,” reiterated Harley. 

Keeping her slowly fading calm, Barbara called Bruce’s office.  She made sure the speaker was off before she dialed.

“Wayne Enterprises, Bruce Wayne speaking.”

Barbara handed the phone to Harley.  “It’s Batman,” she whispered.

Harley tucked her gun under her arm and took the phone.  “Hiya Bats!  I got a gun t’ Batgirl’s head.  I’m holdin’ her hostage until you get yer ass down to,” Harley looked at Barbara as she mouthed _Gates Hall_ , “Gates Hall at Gotham University.  Ya got an howa.  Love you, bye!”  She hung up and passed the phone back to Barbara.  “Any plans on how to get rid of the fuzz?”  Harley jerked her thumb over her shoulder at the GCPD barricades.

_Oh wonderful_ , thought Barbara, _Daddy’s here._   Her father was front and center holding a bullhorn.  Detective Harvey Bullock and other members of the GCPD's finest were serving as back-up.  “Let me talk to them,” she said wearily.  This was not a conversation she was looking forward to having.  Barbara walked over to her father and waved. 

“Batgirl,” her father said gruffly, “status report.”

Barbara sighed.  “Situation’s under control.  You guys can go.”

Commissioner Gordon looked like he was going to explode.  “Harley Quinn is under arrest for making terroristic threats.”

Barbara surveyed the buildings.  Surprisingly, none of them had been damaged.  A few places in the pavement had bullet holes in them from the falling bullets, but no one had been hurt.  “Look, you can have her after we’re done.  She’s doing a wellness check on a patient.”

“Wellness check?” Barbara’s father was slowly turning a new shade of red.  “Wellness check?  On who?” he exploded.

“Nightwing.  It’s not like he has a giant skylight to call him or anything.  And his phone’s been taken out of service.  Want to take a bet on who’s most likely to have the most recent contact information?”  Barbara knew that she was going to get in a lot of trouble for being so flippant.  “Sir, I’ll bring her in once we’ve established contact with Nightwing, ok?”

“Are they,” Bullock hedged, “Are they… dating?”

“What?  No,” Barbara said abruptly.  “Ew.  She’s his psychiatrist and he hasn’t been to therapy in almost two months.” Bullock looked skeptical.  Barbara continued, “Considering that he was turned into a flying monkey from hell, he really needs to keep up with his mental health.  And the fact that the number _I_ have for him is not working, I’m really, really concerned right now.  Because this is not like him.  And if he hasn’t given _me_ any updated contact information, I have to assume the worst.  So please,” she hit the barricade, “SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

Bullock jumped back, hands up in a surrender position.  Commissioner Gordon’s face slowly went less red.  “You’ll bring her in after you’ve made contact?”

“Scout’s honor.  And I’ll even get her to give up the bullets,” said Barbara.

Commissioner Gordon nodded.  “We’ll move the barricade back a block.  You have an hour, then we’re moving in, understand?”

Barbara nodded.  An hour had been Batman’s time limit as well.  “He should be here by then.”  Barbara went and sat on top of one of the parked cars next to Harley.  She asked Harley to surrender the magazine and empty the chamber of her gun.  Harley complied, and the bullets were tossed toward the GCPD barricade.  They double and triple checked to make sure that the gun was completely empty.  Fifteen minutes later, Batman swung in on his grapple line. 

“Oh, look who’s pulling day shift,” said Harley sarcastically.  “How’s Daddy-Bats today?”

“Quinn,” Batman growled.  He was ready for a fight.  Barbara rolled her eyes. 

“Have you heard from Nightwing?” Barbara asked bluntly. 

Batman frowned.  “What does that have to do with this?”

Barbara looked at Harley, who picked up the cue.  “Did you know that Nightwing hasn’t been to therapy for almost two months?  Because I do.  And that’s not good, Bats.  So, call him, or I blow her brains out!”  Harley pointed her empty gun at Barbara for emphasis.

“Oh no.  Help, help.”  Barbara remarked dryly. 

“He… might not pick up if I call,” Batman said slowly.

“Why?” asked Harley slowly.

Batman looked at Barbara.  She knew Bruce enough to know that he was hiding something.  “We… had a disagreement.”

“When?” Harley gritted.

“Mid-January.  Ish.”

“About?” Harley’s patience was clearly growing thin.

Batman looked to Barbara for support.  “Don’t look at me,” she said.  “I tried calling him, and the number I have doesn’t work.”

Batman looked at Harley.  She was about to flip her lid.  “I… we….”

“Go on,” said Barbara.

“I took him off patrol permanently because he’s clearly unmedicated and unstable.”

“Did you ask him about his treatment plan?” snarled Harley.

“I… he… I looked up his so-called medication.  He should be on Prozac or Zoloft.  Instead he’s on a high blood pressure medication.  That has nothing to –”

Harley grabbed her riffle by the nozzle and smacked Batman across the face with the butt.  As he staggered, Harley continued to beat him with the rifle as she ranted.  “Prazosin is used off label fer treatment of PTSD and has been shown to have effects in certain patients.  _Combined with therapy_ , it can be effective, especially if other medications increase insomnia and can cause suicidal ideation – two things that yer son doesn’t need to deal with without coping mechanisms in place.  Which you would know, if ya had A FUCKING DOCTORATE IN PSYCHIATRY, YOU GODDAMN MOTHER-FUCKER!”

As Harley began her rant, Barbara pulled out her phone and started filming.  Harley was screaming about the importance of regularly attending therapy, maintaining a consistent treatment regimen, and having support from family and friends.  Batman was curled on the street, trying to protect his head from Harley’s onslaught.  She started laughing.  This may just be her new happy-place video.  Several other police officers, standing behind her father, pulled out their phones and also started filming the rant. 

“SO, CALL YER GODDAMN SON!”  Harley finished, throwing the empty gun off to the side.  She gave him a swift kick in the ribs for extra measure.  Batman’s phone had fallen out of his utility belt.  She picked up his phone and tossed it to Barbara.  “Can you unlock this?”

Barbara gave her a quick side-eye, and unlocked Batman’s phone with ease.  She scrolled down his contacts and found Dick’s number.  Barbara plugged it into her phone, and put it on speaker.  Batman groaned as he rose, clutching his ribs.  The phone rang.

“Hello?” said Dick’s voice on the other end.

Barbara and Harley both breathed a sigh of relief.  “Hey, Nightwing.  It’s Harley.  You alright?” said Harley.

“Yeah.  Fine.  Why?”

“You’ve missed several appointments.  I’ve been trying to get in contact with you for almost two months now using the information at the office.  I was getting’ a bit worried.  We were really making progress in our last session, then – poof! – ya ghosted!” said Harley.

“Yeah,” Nightwing said, “Sorry, I just… forgot to call.  Things have been coming up and I just… kept… delaying.”

Barbara and Harley exchanged skeptical looks.  “Well, I’ll have to arrange some sessions with Dr. Smith then.  I’m looking at some time in jail, right now.  I’ll probably be out in about two weeks, give or take.”

“What?” said Nightwing.

“Yeah,” Barbara replied, “she started shooting down at Gotham U. to get Batman’s attention.  We got your new number off of his phone.  I put it in mine since the number I had for you doesn’t work anymore.  Thanks for letting me know, by the way.”

“Sorry… forgot again,” responded Nightwing. 

Harley wracked her brain for a minute.  “Do you need a refill for your prescription?”

“No… no… I’m… I’m good.  But thanks.”

“Alright, well, if you need anything, call me or Batgirl.  We worry,” said Harley.  Nightwing hung up.  Harley turned and held her hands behind her back.  Barbara placed some cuffs on her.  “Send me that numba.  And keep an eye on him,” said Harley in a low voice.

“Why?”

“He changed his numba and didn’t tell you.  Which means that he probably didn’t tell other people.  That’s not a good sign.”  Barbara started taking Harley to the barricade.  “Nightwing needs to know that he still has a support system.  Call him once a week, make up some bullshit excuse.  If something doesn’t feel right after you talk to him, call the cops.  Bettah to waste the cops’ time on a wellness check than end up with an autopsy.” 

“I’ll try.  My dissertation defense will have to be rescheduled.  I can call him about that.”

“Make sure you actually listen to him, and not just burden him with yer problems, ok?” 

“I will.  Do you want me to punch Batman again for you?”

“Please,” said Harley as she was handed over to Commissioner Gordon.  “Hard.  Thanks, Batgirl.  I feel bettah now.  I’ll call him when I get out.”

“I don’t think that’s going to be for a while,” muttered Commissioner Gordon.  Harley winked at Batgirl.  Barbara shook her head before confronting Batman.

“The _fuck_ did you think that would accomplish?  Call him and apologize,” she snarled, “and you better check up on him every week from now on, or I swear to God, I’ll beat the shit out of you myself.”  Barbara stalked off.

“Where are you going?” yelled Batman.

“Class,” she bellowed as she headed back to the urine-stained alleyway where she had left her backpack. 


	26. The Giver

James Gordon was not having a good week.

A rather late and virulent strain of the flu had swept through Gotham, taking out officers from all over the city.  There were not enough part-timers to fill in for all the full-time officers who were out sick.  Even Red Robin and Robin had been out of commission for the last week.  From what the Bat said, they got hit with it, too.  The local schools and colleges were considering suspending classes, it was that bad. 

And that slimeball, Mulhoney!  That shitstain from IA had the balls to accuse him of embezzling overtime pay from _his_ officers, meanwhile that son of a bitch had been taking the money himself.  Commissioner Gordon was livid when Red Robin and Montoya had brought the evidence to him.  Gordon had been on the phone all damn week with the District Attorney to get a warrant to search Mulhoney’s home and bank records.  Paperwork.  Yay. 

Harley Quinn had broken out of police custody.  Again.  She was underground, and the Mayor was breathing down his neck to get her back into custody.  Three days after Harley Quinn’s getaway, Poison Ivy went on a rampage and caused the trees in Robinson Park to start walking around and smashing every gasoline-powered car in sight.  Jim Gordon still could not get over the urge to yell, “The Ents are going to war!” every time he saw the footage.  It was the only humor he had as yet another mountain of paperwork was dumped on his desk.

According to an anonymous tip (probably Red Hood, now that Gordon thought about it), Black Mask and the Penguin were still on the brink of another gang war.  Jesus Christ.  He’d have to get the Gang Task Force on it.  Delegation.  Delegation is good.  And he’d have to get the SWAT team’s equipment prepped and updated.  God, that budget got shot to hell last year with those fucking demons from fucking outer space because why the fuck not, it’s not like they have anywhere else to fucking invade except the goddamn Earth and fucking Gotham City.  Jesus Christ. 

Of course, Gotham was probably the only city on the Eastern seaboard that had never heard of the term “paperless office.”  Upon reflection, Gordon realized that it may be for the best.  Two days ago, some external IT consultant – who had been hired by the Mayor –  accidentally introduced a virus into the Gotham Police Department’s internal system which caused a mass panic as people started deleting emails and panicking about lost files.  Gordon ripped the stuttering man a new one before promptly sacking him.  Now, the rest of the IT department had that mess to clean up and everyone had to reset their passwords and possibly get new email addresses.  Goddamn.  Fortunately, Gordon’s dinosaur of a desktop had somehow been spared.  He may have conveniently forgotten to mention to the IT department that Batman, Red Robin, and Batgirl had worked on his computer’s security. 

There was also a council meeting tomorrow.  Kill.  Him.  Now.  If he had to play nice with those short-tempered, sensitive idiots, he was going to lose his ever-loving mind.  If Councilman Tisdale thought that he was going to cut anything from the police budget, Gordon planned on bringing the damn pickled demon head that Autopsy’s got in the evidence locker as a stern reminder of how woefully ill-prepared they are. 

Christ Almighty. 

There was a rap at the door.  “What?” barked Commisioner Gordon as he tried to prioritize which shitstorm to muckrake first.  Fucking March.  Fucking hell.   Thank God, it was April.  Maybe then the crazy would die down. 

_Who the fuck am I kidding?_ thought Commissioner Gordon _.  It’s fucking Gotham.  Everyday is a lesson in insanity._  

Clarice Tung, his long-suffering secretary, smiled with fake sweetness as she entered the Commissioner’s crowded and messy office.  She casually picked up a pile of papers and filed them into one of the five filing cabinets that lined one wall of the office.  She dusted off her hands.  “Commissioner, there’s a Detective Svoboda from the Bludhaven Police Department here to see you.”

Svoboda.  He didn’t know anyone named Svoboda.  The police commissioner of Bludhaven’s last name sure as hell wasn’t Svoboda.  “The hell –”

Mrs. Tung’s eyebrows shot up in warning.  Gordon felt himself deflate.  “I mean, what does she want me for?”

“Not sure, sir,” she said.  “But it sounded urgent.”

Commissioner Gordon rounded his desk and went onto the floor.  “What’s she look like?”

“Blond.  Portly.  She may have gone onto the roof for a break.  Why don’t you go join her, sir?  Since apparently, you’ve decided to work through lunch again.”  If any other officer had taken that sarcastic tone with him, Commissioner Gordon would have nailed them for insubordination.  Since it was Clarice, who put up with his chaotic filing system and short temper, he allowed it.  Commissioner Gordon swore that he would find some way to financially reimburse this woman for all the bullshit she had put up with in her tenure as his secretary.  But they were public servants.  So, no luck so far. 

Gordon grabbed his JUUL and stalked up to the roof.  Sure enough, there was a blond, portly, middle-aged woman smoking a cigar and staring out at the Gotham streets below.  Gordon caught a whiff of the smoke.  The cigar was cheap, but it had been years since he had smoked one.  The smell brought back brief memories of a simpler time. 

“Detective Svoboda?”  The woman looked up in surprise.  “Commissioner James Gordon, Gotham PD.”  Gordon held his hand out for her.

“Detective Elise Svoboda, Bludhaven PD,” she replied as she shook his hand.

“What brings you thirty miles off your beat?” he asked as he drew a breath from his JUUL.  The nicotine hit his lungs quickly.  It was not the same as smoking a cigarette or a pipe, but it got his daughter off of his back about his smoking.  Barbara had pretty much given up on getting him to quit.  She wanted him to give up every smoking device entirely. 

“Got a message from a mutual friend,” she muttered after taking a puff of her cigar. 

“Oh?” Gordon wracked his brain as he took another puff from his JUUL.  Damn, Clarice was right.  He really needed a smoke break.  Bludhaven.  Bludhaven.  Who did he know that was in Bludhaven?

Svoboda kept the cigar in her mouth as she reached into her pocket.  She pulled out a USB drive.  “He told me to give this to you.  Told me to give one to my superiors too.  And I did.  But I’ll bet those bastards will lose it before they can scratch their asses with it.”

Commissioner Gordon liked her already.  He could tell that Svoboda was a no-nonsense kind of person.  However, she was also a cop from Bludhaven.  They were notorious for cutting corners.  Lazy fuckers.  “Look, are you going to make me guess which mutual friend we’re talking about here?  I have a lot of friends.”

Svoboda scoffed.  “Blue tights.  Likes to talk.  Nice ass.”

Nightwing.  Commissioner Gordon frowned.  Nightwing could have just delivered it himself.  The kid had been doing flips off the damn Police Building since he was a preteen.  For such a cocky kid, he developed into a decent man.  Commissioner Gordon wondered if he was single again.  Barbara needed someone who would support her and take good care of her when he was gone.  Patronizing thought, yes, but he was a father.  He worried. 

“Did he say what was on it?”  Commissioner Gordon took the USB drive and turned it over in his fingers. 

“No, but that’s above my pay grade.”  Svoboda drew another drag from her cigar.  “Don’t lose that!  He made me swear up and down that I’d make you promise to put that somewhere safe.  Don’t accidentally try to smoke it, either.”

Gordon rolled his eyes as he put the thumb drive into his pocket.  “Thanks, Detective.  I’ll take a look at it.  Give my regards to him when you see him?”

She frowned.  “You haven’t seen him?”

Gordon shrugged.  “Bludhaven’s his beat now.  He outgrew Gotham.  When’s the last time you spoke to him?”

“Yesterday,” she said as she took another drag from her cigar.  “Seemed almost obsessive about that damn thumb drive.  Makes me wonder what’s on it.”

“You said you gave one to your superiors, right?  Your superiors haven’t told you?”

“Look, just because I’ve got Nightwing’s seal of approval doesn’t mean my superiors like me all that much.  Between you and me, they like Nightwing as long as it’s convenient for them.  I’m no dummy; I made a copy for myself before I sent it to them.  Haven’t had a hot minute to look at the damn stuff because shit’s hit the fan.”

“In what way?” said Gordon.  He took another puff from his JUUL. 

“My kid’s got the fucking flu.  This is her second go around.  Got one strain at school, came home for a week, went back to school, caught another strain, now she’s home again.  Jesus Christ.”  She took a long drag and exhaled like a dragon.  “I’ve been working night shift.  Apparently, Big Blue’s been visiting my little girl, making chicken soup and reading bedtime stories when he’s not beating the ever-loving shit out of Bludhaven’s underground.”

“Big Blue’s Superman, just so you know.  Not Nightwing.”

“Do I look tight with these capes to you?”

Gordon conceded the point.  He only knew about the inner workings of the superhero community based on what Batman had told him or hinted at over the years.  “You may become that way if Nightwing continues to vouch for you.”

Svoboda frowned skeptically.  “Why would the big wigs give a shit about some two-bit loner cape in a back-ass dump like Bludhaven?”

“Nightwing’s not some two-bit cape.  He’s pretty high up there.”  Gordon took a drag from his JUUL.  “Founding member of the Teen Titans, trained by Batman.  Kid’s been in the business since he was a preteen.  I didn’t approve,” said Gordon, cutting off Svoboda’s question, “but the kid looked determined.  He’s just as good as the Bat.  Maybe better.  He doesn’t have the shitty attitude, that’s for certain.”  Gordon walked over to the Batsignal and leaned on it.  “He even did a stint as the Bat.  Nightwing could become the leader of the Justice League if he wanted to, but instead he chooses to defend Bludhaven.  You are lucky.”

“Know his name?” said Svoboda.  Her cigar had gone out.  She struck a match and relit it. 

Gordon shook his head.  “Even if I did, not my place to tell you.”

“You ever wonder about them?”

“Who?”

“The capes.  What they do in their spare time?  Do they work?  Got any hobbies?  What made them don a fucking cape and some tights and try to get themselves killed every night?”

Gordon had never thought about it that way.  It was cynical, but true.  “Nightwing’s never told you?”

“I don’t know a damn thing about him.  He knows where I live, my daughter’s name, my ex-husband’s whereabouts, and my favorite brand of cigar.  Every time I talk to him, it’s always professional.”

“The Bats play things close to the chest.  They get that from their mentor.  How’s he doing?”

Svoboda shrugged.  “Hard to say.  He’s not as chatty as he used to be.  Hasn’t been since he disappeared for nine months.  The guy who was patrolling our streets during that time frame wasn’t the real guy.  Too damn broad.  Too damn violent.”  She tapped the ashes of her cigar off the edge of the building and leaned against the concrete barrier.  “Then he comes back – no word about why he was gone – and starts cleaning house.  I’ve never seen Bludhaven’s underground so damn scared in all my life.  Other than the usual crimes that come with city life, things have been quiet.”

“When did that start happening?”  That was new information.  Gordon had not seen the statistics for Bludhaven since the start of the new year.  Not his city, not his problem. 

“After Christmas.  Really ramped up around February.  Gangs aren’t recruiting.  Drug traffic’s trickled to levels the most rookie cop can handle.  Makes me wonder if he knows something I don’t.”

Gordon frowned.  “I can ask Robin.  See if he knows anything.”

“Not the Bat?  Heard you two were tight.”

“That whole family’s complicated.  But if you see him, send him my regards.”

“Will do.  I’ve got a day off tomorrow.  Might actually have time to look at those files and see what’s up.”  Svoboda gave him her card, shook Gordon’s hand, and left the roof.  Gordon puffed in silence, his hand turning over the USB drive in his pocket. 

Properly high on nicotine, he went back into his office.  He locked the door and shut the blinds.  After logging into his computer, he pulled out the USB drive and opened the files. 

Gordon’s jaw dropped.

It was a goddamn goldmine.  Everything that Gordon needed to know about those fucking demons from space.  How they were made.  How they were trained.  How they fought.  How to identify the hierarchy.  Most importantly, how to kill them.  The USB drive also included dossiers on all the key players of Apokalips, their motivations, their powers and weaknesses, and their weaponry.  This information must have taken months to compile and organize.  Gordon knew that the information had to be relatively old, but this was a lifesaver.  Information is power.  They knew now, on a basic level at least, how to hold off the bastards if not beat them.

“CLARICE!” Gordon bellowed.  This was fantastic!  “Clarice!  Send an email to every commissioner in my Rolodex!  We need to get a vid conference ASAP!  I’ve got information that needs to be sent to every major city and its suburbs!”

Clarice Tung recovered from her shock and set to work.  Jim Gordon poured over every piece of information gifted to him by Nightwing.

This would save so many lives when the parademons – that’s what they were called – attacked again.  Police departments would know which weapons to stockpile, which tactics to drill into their officers.  Jim Gordon, despite being caught up in the excitement, grabbed a blank card from his desk and began writing a thank-you note. 

There were not enough words to express his gratitude. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be upcoming chapters that will be dealing with Dick's suicide attempt and the fallout. I'll be putting (x) on the titles of the chapters that have this subject matter in case you'd like to skip them. 
> 
> I will NOT be going into any sort of graphic detail about the act itself, but I will talk about the treatments needed to revive him. Not a doctor, but I've tried to make sure my research was as accurate as possible. This seems the best course of action based on the criticisms that I've seen of shows like 13 Reasons Why. 
> 
> If you are struggling with suicidal thoughts, please remember that you are loved and that it's ok to get the help you need. There is nothing shameful in taking medication or going to therapy.


	27. Code Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tags come into effect starting towards the middle of this chapter. So TRIGGER WARNING: SUICIDE ATTEMPT. 
> 
> Chapters that deal with heavy emotional themes and/or characters coping directly with the aftermath will be marked with a (X) after the chapter title. Just in case you want to use discretion. Some chapters will reference it, but are a bit lighter in tone than the (X) chapters. 
> 
> There is nothing graphic in any of these chapters, but I'm erring on the side of caution. I'm assuming if you've stuck with me this long, you knew it was coming. If not... apologies. Also -- as always -- if I messed something up or got my facts wrong, please let me know. I don't mind constructive criticism as long as it is polite.

The crime rate in Bludhaven suddenly spiked after months of being at a record low.  Normally, Batman would not have cared about Gotham’s neighbor’s problems.  Tonight was a shining exception. 

Bludhaven officially became Batman’s problem when Black Mask and the Penguin decided to start their gang war there instead of in Gotham.  The goal of the mission was to contain the gang war and the drugs to Bludhaven, and hopefully end it for good as quickly as possible. 

No one was happy to see him when he came to Bludhaven.  That was painfully apparent.  Batman had to call in reinforcements just to navigate the city.  The only one available was Red Hood.  Even Nightwing wasn’t picking up his phone. 

Which is how the pair found themselves in the middle of a gang war in Bludhaven’s Red Light district. 

Red Hood was partially acquainted with many of the sex workers in the area and had a decent knowledge of the urban terrain.  During a lull in the fighting, the pair had broken cover and ran into one of the brothels.  Desiree, Red Hood’s contact, ushered them in before the gangsters figured out that the two vigilantes had moved position.  Panting, Batman collapsed into a chair in the lobby while Red Hood leaned against one of the doorframes. 

“I hate this city,” Batman growled.  “I hate this fucking city.”

“You know we can’t stay here, right?” said Red Hood.

“Really?” snarked Batman.  “Ma’am,” he said to Desiree, “is there a back entrance to this place where my associate and I can escape without them noticing?”

“The gangsters around here ain’t that bright,” said Desiree.  “But yeah, we got a back door.”  She led them down a corridor.  Some of the sex workers popped their heads out of the rooms to get a glimpse of the Batman. 

One worker in particular seemed hell-bent on actually meeting the Bat.  Batman did not have time to deal with fangirls.  He needed this damn gang war contained, and he wished that Nightwing would pick up his damn phone.  He had called three times.  This was his city.  Where the hell was he?

“Hey, Bats!” said one of the sex workers who had followed them out.  It was a petite, blond woman called Chastity.  “Did Nightwing pass on my message to your wife?”

Batman stopped in the alley and turned around.  “Excuse me?” growled Batman.

“Told him that his mama should be proud of him.  Told him to tell her I said so.  Did she get the message?”

Batman and Red Hood exchanged looks.  “I’m not married,” Batman responded.

“Huh,” said the same woman.  “That’s weird, ‘cuz he said he was going to be seeing your wife today.”

Batman frowned.  “Say that again.  Like I’m slow.”

“He mentioned that he was going to see his mom at the end of the month,” said Desiree as she caught up to them.  “He,” she hesitated, “He said he was looking forward to it.”

Red Hood looked over at Batman.  He did not appear to be breathing.  “Bats?”

Batman began blinking in rapid succession.  “When,” Red Hood swallowed, “when did he say this?”

“Last week,” said Chastity.  “He seemed really happy about it, too.”

Desiree frowned.  “Is there something wrong with a boy visiting his mama?”

Batman took off.  “I… I need to make a call,” he said flatly.  He walked toward an uninhabited section of the alleyway and called the Bludhaven Police.

“Hi, yes, I need someone to do a welfare check on my son.” Batman rattled off Nightwing’s address.  “He… hasn’t spoken to us in a few weeks.  Yes.  Yes, I think he might be.  Thank you.”  Batman hung up.  “Hood,” he said while struggling to remain calm, “can you clean up here?  I… I may be a while.”  The Batmobile’s autopilot had been activated and zeroed in on Batman’s location.  Batman jumped into the driver’s seat. 

Red Hood gave the thumbs up and sank down onto a garbage can.  The sound of bullets whizzing faded into the background as the Batmobile took off.  The rest of the sex workers had moved closer to the vigilante.  “So, what’s wrong with Nightwing visiting his mom?” said Chastity.

Red Hood swallowed.  The women had their hands on their hips and were staring him down.  “Nightwing’s mom died about twenty years ago,” Red Hood said flatly.

The sex workers exchanged nervous glances.  Desiree was the first to add it together.  She put her hand over her mouth. 

 Red Hood did not have time to dwell on the possible outcomes of the call.  Instead, he focused his helplessness and frustration on eliminating as many of the gangsters as possible without actually killing any of them.  An hour later, he dropped behind a dumpster and checked his phone.

There was one text message from ten minutes ago.

_Go to the Manor.  Call all back.  Do NOT allow Robin or RR to leave the premises.  Use all force necessary to restrain._

Red Hood typed back:  _Stl in Bldhvn. Will b able 2 go in abt 15.  Whre r u?_

A minute later, Jason received a reply:  _Bludhaven General.  They’ve called a Code Blue._


	28. X (x)

There is a posture taken by every young man itching for a fight.  Their eyes stare into nothingness.  They breathe deep, huffing breaths through the nose.  Their shoulders square.  Their jaw clenches.  Their hands are balled into fists.  One leg bounces with nervous energy, beating a steady cadence into the floor.  

Selina strode quickly through the waiting room near Bludhaven General’s ICU.  Even though her relationship with Batman could be described as “complicated” on the best of days, one text from Alfred sent her speeding down the highway.  Bruce was clearly in shock.  His right leg was bouncing while his chin rested on his fists.  Somewhere between making the call and arriving at the hospital, Bruce had changed into civilian clothes. 

She remembered the boys she knew in childhood, watching him.  The young men who tried to keep their rage and grief inside until it exploded into violence against each other or their girlfriends.  There was no one to fight here.  No costumed villain to blame.  If there was, it was a god-like alien that was thousands of light years away.   

She sat down silently next to him.  The TV continued to blare late night infomercials.  Selina placed her hand on Bruce’s bouncing knee.  It stopped at her touch. 

“What’s the news?” she asked softly.

“He’s still alive as far as I know,” said Bruce numbly.  “But that was,” he looked at the clock, “an hour ago.”

Selina nodded.  They continued to sit in silence.  An elderly man sat across from them holding a sweater.  A young woman was consoling an older woman – possibly her mother.  Bruce’s leg went back to its rapid cadence.  Selina wrapped her arm around his. The clock ticked.   

“I saw him,” Bruce choked in a hushed whisper.  “When they brought him out.”  He closed his eyes.  “I know what he took, Selina.  I know exactly what he took.”  He bowed his head.  Selina could see that he was trying not to break down in the middle of the ICU’s waiting room.  She wrapped her arms around him fully, drawing him close to her. 

She rubbed his back and tried to think of what to say.  Nothing sounded like the right thing.  Every possible words of comfort sounded banal or clichéd.  Bruce had done everything he could.  Selina knew Bruce enough to realize that he would blame himself, regardless of the outcome. 

“He knows you’re here,” she whispered as she continued to rub his back.  “And I’m here for as long as you need me.”

He sniffed and broke from her embrace.  Selina was shocked by the steely look he gave her.  “I need for you to do me a huge favor.”

“Anything.”

“I need you to steal an ambulance.”

Selina blinked.  “Excuse me?”

“He can’t stay here.” Bruce dropped his voice even lower, “Once word gets out that he’s… unwell… he will be vulnerable.  I need to transfer him to the Watchtower.  We have the medical supplies to care for him there.  Gotham will be a media circus, and so will this place once the media catches wind.”  Bruce glanced around.  “I will not have this publicized, and I do not want any of his enemies to try and come to finish him off.”

Selina nodded.  This whole idea was stupidity at its finest.  She didn’t know what happened to Dick, but moving a patient in the ICU was not something done easily.  “You’ll have to wait until he’s stable.”

“He won’t be.  Not for another twenty-four hours, at best.  He needs to be moved now.”

“Bruce, this is,” Selina paused to collect herself.  She was treading on thin ice and she knew it.  She sighed.  “Wait until the doctors get him stable for now.  We’ll need the charts and information.  I don’t know what’s going on here – and I know you’re already making contingency plans – but right now, let the doctors do their jobs.  Once he is safe enough to move, then I will do mine.  Right now, be his father and be here.”

Bruce’s phone went off.  Selina’s eyes narrowed.  Bruce explained, “I’ve given Cassandra, Stephanie, and Alfred orders not to let Tim be alone right now.  They’ve been texting me every hour.  I can’t go through this twice.  I’d ask Damian, but he and Tim hate each other.  Damian would purposefully push Tim over the edge out of spite.”

Before Selina could ask for clarification, one of the doctors approached the pair.  Bruce rose and walked off with the doctor towards the nurse’s station.  Selina watched Bruce nod, brow furrowed, as the doctor continued with her update.  She closed her eyes, and willed Bruce not to ask that Dick be moved.  She was unsuccessful. 

After finishing with the doctor, Bruce pulled Selina into a vacant room.  “They want to transfer him tomorrow.”  Bruce rubbed the back of his neck.  “Martha Wayne Memorial has better care options for… this.  I can get him into a private room and teleport him to the Watchtower from there.  The window will be small, but we can get him right into the Watchtower ICU.”

“No Sanctuary?”  Bruce blinked, startled.  Selina rolled her eyes.  “Seriously, I know you and the rest of the Holy Trinity wanted to keep it under wraps.  But I was there when Ivy was sent, remember?”

“Sanctuary has been temporarily closed since the… incident.”  Bruce swallowed.  “That was my first choice, but it won’t be fully operational again until next week.” 

Selina nodded grimly.  “Have you… have you told –”

“No,” Bruce interrupted.  “No, not yet.  I… can’t.  Not until I know for sure.”

“Bruce, they deserve to know.”

“Hood knows.”

“It would mean more coming from you.  You’re their father, Bruce.”

Bruce scoffed.  “Some father I’m turning out to be.”

“Not my point, and you know it.  I know you.  If you shut down and drive your kids away, I’ll hunt you down myself.”

Bruce blinked, then nodded.  His jaw clenched.  Selina continued, “I’m going to find some coffee.  You better be here when I get back.  Then, once we know he’s stable, we’ll go and tell your kids together, ok?”

Bruce nodded again.  “Thank you, Selina.”

She touched his cheek and gave him a light kiss before going to the coffee cart.  They had a long watch ahead. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, please tell me if I messed something up. Not a doctor, and I don't play one on TV. 
> 
> Please keep the Jewish community of Pittsburgh in your thoughts and prayers as they recover from a vicious hate crime. If you are in the area and can donate blood, please do so.


	29. The Pugilist (x)

The bag thumped.  One-two.  One-two.  Left, left, right.  Jab.  Jab.  Cross.  Uppercut.  Jab.  Jab. 

Alfred knew something was wrong when Jason came back without Bruce.

Thump-thump.  Thump.  Thump-thump-thump.

There was a dent in the computer where Jason had punched it upon returning from patrol.  Alfred would have to dismantle the paneling to straighten it.

Thump.  Thump-thump-thump. 

Jason was in the wind.  He had left almost immediately after the news was broken to the family.  Alfred would wait a few days, then text.  Jason will hold a grudge over this.  But towards whom?

Thump.  Thump.

Tim’s glare was hard and cold when he realized that Bruce did not trust him.  Alfred could hardly blame the boy.  He also could hardly blame Bruce, either.  He’ll call Leslie to schedule an appointment for Tim and make it look like it had been scheduled months ago.  Tim was stronger than Bruce believed, but not as strong as he’d like to think.  He’ll need to talk to someone.

Thump.  Thump.  Thump.

Alfred may have to talk to Leslie himself, come to think of it.

Thump-thump.

Barbara would hold, for now.  She’d hold until the crisis passed.  Then, she’d break down.  Barbara won’t do anything rash, but she will try to push them away.  Again.

Thump.  Thump-thump.  

Cassie’s room at the Manor needed to be cleaned.  She will stay close to the family, now.  Cassie was already well acquainted with death.  This, however, was a different circumstance.  Stephanie may support her through this, after she’s done crying.  

Thump-thump.

And then there's Duke to consider.  New to the family, he's already lost so much.  Will he want to stay after this?  Will he want to get out of the game altogether?  Alfred was not entirely sure.  He still barely knew him.  

Thump.  Thump. 

Damian.  Damn.  There’s going to be trouble.  He was close to Dick.  Is. 

Thump-thump.  Thump-thump.

He may regress, like he did when Bruce died.

Thump-thump.  Thump.

He may lash out at Bruce.  Damian was Dick’s Robin.  Still is, in many ways.

Thump.  Thump.

The punching bag swung back.  Alfred caught it and leaned against it, heaving. 

Dick was still alive.  If there were any blessings to be found, it was that knowledge.  His grandson lived. 

Thank God.  Thank God. 

Bruce had aged twenty years.  The last time Alfred saw Bruce that haggard was when he thought Tim had died.  He was even worse when Damian had died.  He was the worst when Jason had died.  It had been a miracle that all of these children had come back.  Alfred hoped that this time, their luck would not run out.

Dick was on a ventilator.  He was not out of the woods, yet.

But he was alive. 

Alfred wiped the sweat from his brow and sat down on one of the gym benches.  He took a sip of water from a water bottle.  He held his head in his hands.

It had been years since he hit the bags with such vigor.  Alfred was usually kept active by the day-to-day management of a large estate.  There was no need to come up and hit something purely for physical fitness.  He enjoyed boxing, in his youth.  Old age had slowed him somewhat, but his skills were still sharp.  He did come to the gym and train on a rare occasion to keep his muscle memory active.

The last time Alfred hit the bags for over an hour was when Jason had died.

He had done the same thing when Dr. and Mrs. Wayne had died, leaving him with a young boy to raise.  He took his grief, rage, and frustration out on the punching bag, tiring himself out in order to be a stalwart companion for a grieving child.  A child that, even still, he felt highly unqualified to raise.

Alfred had hit the bags when his father died.  Jarvis was a good man, if idealistic.  He adored the Waynes, and had hoped that Alfred would carry on his post as butler.  Alfred had initially come over to help his father, not replace him.  Jarvis had left his family to serve the Waynes after his father had died.  Alfred rarely saw his father in his youth.  He wished he had gotten to know his father better before he passed. 

He had hit the bags every day when he was in the service. 

He had hit the bags when he was thirteen and his uncle decided to take a swing at his mother and her sister.  Alfred had sworn that he would make the drunken, whoring, son of a bitch pay for laying a hand on his aunt and attempting to lay a hand on his mother.  With his father over three thousand miles away, someone had to step up and be the man of the house.

Alfred had gotten his ass kicked in the first bout with his uncle.  He got his own back when he was eighteen.  To this day, he was still unsure if his mother was proud or appalled. 

Alfred sighed and stretched.  He had tried everything short of drinking to get the empty feeling out of his chest.  He drank himself stupid when Damian died.  A hangover was not worth a second attempt, even if circumstances were appropriate. 

Dick was strong.  He had a moment of weakness.  Alfred had plenty of those moments when he was in the service.  Plenty of those moments, full stop.

There was a soft knock at the gym door.  Alfred stood, grateful that he had decided to wear a shirt while training.  It was soaked in sweat, but better than exposing his grandchildren to half-naked old man.  He suffered no illusions; it was not necessarily a pleasant sight. 

“Am I interrupting?”  Selina Kyle leaned against the doorframe. 

“Not at all, Ms. Kyle.  May I help you?”  Alfred started to rise, but stopped when Selina held out her hand, palm out. 

“Just came to check on you.  Damian said you were in here.”

“How is Master Damian?  And Master Bruce, for that matter?”

Selina slunk into the gym and took a seat next to Alfred.  Alfred thought – not for the first time – that Catwoman was an appropriate moniker for her.  She sighed.  “I heard crashing noises coming from his room.  It’s a wreck… I’m sure he’s trashed it.  Bruce did the same thing in the Batcave once we came back from Martha Wayne.”  She closed her eyes and shook her head.  “Better the Batcave than the kids, if you want my opinion.”

Alfred drank from his water bottle.  “I know.  I heard.  I cannot thank you enough for being with him during this time, Ms. Kyle.  Despite your… complex relationship, I did not want him to be alone.  And… I was… not sure if I could be as stalwart as needed.”

Selina went to take Alfred’s hands.  His knuckles were bruised from the punching bag.  She changed her grip, and put his hand over hers.  “Cassie’s at Stephanie’s.  Tim’s in his room with Barbara.  Damian may have tuckered himself out by now.  Bruce is asleep.  I don’t know where Jason is.”  She sighed.  Tears began to form.  She shook her head.  “God… I’ve never seen him so –”

“Lost?”

“Yeah,” she dropped her head.  “He has contingency plans for everything.  He has back up plans for his back up plans.  I don’t… I don’t think he ever planned for this.”

“Not with Master Richard, no.  Master Timothy… yes.  He has a plan for that.”  Alfred gripped Selina’s hand slightly tighter.  “But I understand what you mean.”

“He blames Harley.” 

Alfred scoffed, but held his tongue.  Selina looked at him intently.  “He would, wouldn’t he?  She was his psychiatrist.”

“You don’t blame her?”

“No.  No, I don’t.  Ms. – Doctor – Quinzel kept our boy on this earth longer than he would have been otherwise.  When he was,” Alfred sighed.  He was not sure how to delicately phrase it.  He changed tack.  “I saw the difference in him while he was under her care.  He was closer to the man he had been before the unpleasantness.  It was a judgement call that would have worked, if it had been allowed to do so.”

Selina frowned.  As Alfred suspected, she picked up the subtext.  “You don’t –”

“No, of course not,” said Alfred quickly.  It was mostly true, but not completely. 

They sat in silence for a few moments.

Selina sighed.  “We got him transferred to the Watchtower without any issue.  It’s a waiting game now.  From what Dr. Mid-Nite said over the phone, Dick will be back to normal if he can hold on for the next four days.”

“A long watch.  We’ve done it before.”

“God, I don’t know how Bruce or you do it.”

Alfred took another drink from his water bottle.  “Bruce and I have been down this road before.  It was different, then.  I’m sure you already know.”

“He told me, yes.”

“I understood, then.  I blamed myself, of course.  Should have watched him closer.  Should have seen the signs.  And that’s true.  What makes… things like this… difficult is the ‘should-haves.’  ‘Should have done’ this, ‘should have done’ that.  In the end, though, it is another person’s will versus yours.  One can do everything right, can be a solid friend and companion, and still be blindsided.”

“It’s never the dishes,” said Selina.  At Alfred’s befuddled look, Selina smiled sadly.  “A friend of mine used to tell me:  when married couples started fighting about the dishes, it was never actually about the dishes.  The dishes were just the last, final straw that unleashed all of the pent-up rage that had been building underneath.”  She glanced at the floor.  “Maybe it’s the same here.  I don’t know.  I don’t understand why someone would want to die.”

“Oh my dear,” said Alfred.  “It’s not about dying.”  Selina frowned.  Alfred smiled sadly.  “It’s about ending one’s suffering in the quickest way possible.”

Before Selina could inquire further, they heard someone clear their throat.  Bruce stood at the doorway in civilian clothes.  Alfred could tell that he had dressed quickly. 

“I’ve gotten a call from the Watchtower.  They need a medical proxy.  Alfred… I hate to ask… but –” Bruce’s face was resolute. 

“I’ll keep the home fires burning, sir,” said Alfred.

“We both will,” said Selina. 

Bruce nodded.  “He’s coding.  I’m taking the kids with me… in case.”

“Yes, sir.  Tell me… please keep me informed, sir.”

Bruce turned to leave, but paused.  He rushed into the gym and hugged Alfred.  Selina averted her eyes to give the men some privacy.  “Pray for him,” he whispered. 

“I always do, sir.  And for you.  We always have hope, sir.  Always,” Alfred whispered back. 

After hugging Selina and sharing a few whispered words, Bruce set his face and went to gather his children. 

Alfred exhaled a long, shaky breath.  He turned to Selina.  “I could use a cup of tea.  It’s going to be a long day.”  Selina hugged him.  The pair went into the kitchen to wait for news. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Working on two other stories that tie into this universe. One's about Dick's recovery and time on Apokalips and is super dark. The other is pure fluff. If they sound interesting, let me know and I'll post them. They're works in progress. I am not brave enough to post things without editing them.


	30. Memento Mori (x)

_“Charging!”_

It was surreal, staring down at his unconscious body as Martian Manhunter placed the AED pads onto his chest.  Time stopped.

Batman stood by his bedside.  He was out of uniform.  His face was set like stone, but Dick could see the beginnings of a tear in the corner of his eyes.  Superman stood behind him.  Dick left the room and went into the hallway of the Watchtower.  Tim sat on a chair, staring at his hands.  Damian was being held by Barbara who was kneeling on the floor.  They were clinging to each other as though their lives depended on it.  They were all in their pajamas. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered as he stroked Barbara’s face.  “I’m so sorry.”

“They can’t hear you.  Can’t see you either.”

Dick rose and turned around to see a wild-haired Goth girl leaning against the doorway of his infirmary room.  Her silver ankh necklace glinted in the fluorescent light of the Watchtower’s hallway.  He knew, without knowing how he knew, exactly who she was.

“Is it time?” he asked softly.

She smiled.  “Let’s talk somewhere else, shall we?”

He blinked and they were on a mountain on the moon.  Before them was planet Earth, a marble of swirled whites, blues, greens, yellows, and browns.  At the edge, he could see the lights of a city begin where the sun’s light faded.  His companion stretched out and rested her head under her hands.  They stared at the planet in companionable silence.

“I have been here since the first creature stirred,” Dick’s companion said, breaking the silence, “and I’ll never grow tired of this sight.”  She stretched.  “Seven billion souls, all delicately interwoven into one massive, messy tapestry that you humans call life.  Life is… beautiful.”

“We must seem like ants to you,” Dick whispered.

Death glanced over towards Dick and smiled.  “I have taken kings from their thrones and babies from their cradles.  I have guided so many victims of Destruction that I’ve lost track.  Some are happy to see me.  Some beg for more time.  What I never understood was why people would willingly want to summon me.”  She sighed.  “So, why did you do it?”

Dick closed his eyes and swallowed.  “I’m tired.”

“Of what?”

“Pretending to be normal.  Of feeling guilty for what I did to survive on Apokalips, and being ashamed that I had to do what I did.  I’m tired of sleepless nights and tasteless food and feeling like no matter what I did, I would never be normal again.  And I’m tired of constantly convincing myself that my life was worth living. 

“I tried.  I tried so hard to be the person I was.  To hang on.  But… I don’t know if I can be him again.” 

He took a minute to compose himself.  “I was so busy fighting against my own brain that I lost sight of everyone and everything that was important to me.  It became easier to listen to that voice in my head that told me they would be better off without me and that everything I did was pointless.  I forgot about everything that I was going to lose until it was too late.  I forgot how much I was loved in return.”  He exhaled heavily. 

Death smiled in sympathy.  “Despair is a bitch.”

Dick looked over at Death.  “It’s too late now, isn’t it?” he said with a small, sad smile.

Her face was kind.  “I remember Barry Allen worrying about his wife.  I remember Hal Jordan’s guilt.  I remember Jason Todd and Damian Wayne – taken young.  And yet there they are,” Death nodded towards the Watchtower and Earth.  “Laughing and loving and alive.  I may be powerful, but there are some who are more powerful than me.”

The pair looked at the planet, lost in their own thoughts.  This time, Dick broke the silence.  “Thank you.”

Death looked at him, confused.  “For what?”

Dick pursed his lips as he figured out how best to describe what he meant.  “None of this would be possible without you, would it?  If there was only life, it would ultimately be unsustainable.  Plants and animals die to feed other plants and animals.  Circle of life kind of stuff, you know?

“And I wouldn’t be the man I am today without you.  The deaths of my parents – of Bruce Wayne’s parents – they drove how I lived my life.  Don’t get me wrong, I still miss them.  Some days more than others.  But I sometimes wonder how different my life would be if those deaths never happened.  It still hurts, knowing that I may never see them again considering what I’ve done, but I like to think that they would be proud of the life I live – lived.  And you made that possible.”

Death picked up a rock and gently floated it from one hand to the other as Dick was speaking.  “No one’s ever thanked me before,” she said softly.  She placed the rock back onto the moon’s surface.  She sat up and turned to look at Dick.  “We are in the space between one heartbeat and the next.  You have two choices, Richard Grayson.  You can either come with me to Nanda Parbat where you take over the mantle of Deadman from Boston Brand.  Or, you go back and live with the consequences of your suicide attempt.  But you will be alive.”

Dick was confused.  Death continued.  “Whatever peace you were hoping to find, you will not find it with me.  As I said, there are older, more powerful beings in the universe.  And they have decided that you still have a part to play in what is to come – one way or another.  Don’t get me wrong,” she said, rising and dusting off her jeans.  “It grinds my gears when others interfere with my realm.  If I had my way, I’d take you without question.  Like I’ve taken so many others.  This is your gift, Richard Grayson.  It will not happen again.”

“I didn’t think it would happen this time,” Dick remarked truthfully.  He rose and gave a last look at the planet.  “It’s been a while since I’ve seen the planet from space.  It puts things into perspective, doesn’t it?”

Death grinned.  “That’s why I come here when I’m pissed off.”

Dick laughed.  “I think you know what my choice is going to be,” he said sheepishly.

“I figured as much.  You won’t awake instantly, but you will.”

“One more thing,” Dick began.  Death frowned.  “A hug before I go?”

Death laughed heartily and declined.  “You are a strange one.  I’ll see you again.”

“Will I remember any of this?”

“Maybe.”

_“Clear!”_

Dick’s heart monitor began beeping, indicating a strong, steady rhythm.  Batman exhaled in relief.  Superman clapped him on the back in an awkward one-armed hug.

While Dick Grayson’s family kept their vigil, Death of the Endless went into the realm of her older brother, Destiny.

“Is it done?” he asked, looking intently at his book.

“Don’t you already know the answer to that?” Death responded sarcastically.  Destiny raised his head and looked at his younger sister.  She crossed her arms.  “I’m getting real tired of you fucking around with my realm, Destiny.”

“I don’t understand why it comes as a surprise to you.”

Death rolled her eyes.  “One life.  Everyone gets one life.  These superheroes may have powers beyond that of mortal men, but that does not guarantee them a get-out-of-death-free card.  Heroes are not above death.  It upsets the balance of things, in case you haven’t noticed.  And the so-called Bat Family is the worst offenders of the lot!  That’s the third one who’s come back from the dead.”

“Do not blame me for their resurrections, sister.  I only did as was intended.  Richard Grayson lives.  He is needed.  That is all you need to know.  Besides,” Destiny stated, “he was not yet dead when you removed his soul from his body.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, technicalities.”  Death frowned.  “What makes him so special, anyway?”

“What part of ‘need not concern yourself’ did you not understand, sister?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: This was actually one of the first chapters written. ;)
> 
> Wherever you are, I hope you are well. 
> 
> Happy Election Day, America! Go out and honor those who fought for your 14th, 15th, and 19th amendment rights! Bring photo ID!


	31. The Sound of the Beep

**Beep.**

_“Hey, Oracle?  What’s this shit I hear about Nightwing?  Hood’s not picking up his phone and Kori doesn’t know jack.  It’s Arsenal.  Call me back.  Pronto.”_

**Beep.**

_“Hello, machine of Batgirl’s.  This is Koriand’r.  I… heard.  I’m so sorry.  If you need anything, please call.  I… oh, X’hal.”_

**Beep.**

_“It’sWally.Ineedinfo.Ishealive?Doyouneedanything?Icanbethereinseconds.Pleasecallmeback.”_

**Beep.**

_“Babby, it’s Daddy.  I just wanted to let you know that I love you and… you know you can talk to me about anything, right?  I love you.  I love you, so much.  Call me.”_

**Beep.**

_“Heya, Skipper.  I got a bottle of vodka with your name on it.  Just say when.  Lord knows, time’s like this – drinkin’s perfectly acceptable.”_

**Beep.**

_“It’s Donna.  This isn’t funny.  Tell that asshole that if he’s faked his death again, I’m going to kick his ass.”_

**Beep.**

_“Hey, Barbara, it’s Clark.  Batman’s not picking up his phone, either.  Please let him know that if he needs us to take Damian for a weekend, we’re more than glad to.  We’re… [sigh]… Lois is praying for you all.”_

**Beep.**

_“Shit.  Fuck.  Fucking fuck fuck fuck.  No fucking way.  What the fuck’s Hood’s new number?  That asshole didn’t give it to me and didn’t fucking call me, the douchebag.  I’m going to kill him… again.”_

**Beep.**

_“What the fuck, BG?  I’m in Italy for three fucking weeks and everything has gone to shit.  Is he ok?  Someone better tell me something, or I’m hunting bats with my crossbow.”_

**Beep.**

_“Hi… um… It’s… It’s Beast Boy?  I… If you need anything, just let me know.  I work training therapy dogs, and… if you think it’ll help?  When he gets out?  Let me know and… um… yeah.”_

**Beep.**

_“Wow.  I’m so sorry… I didn’t… I didn’t mean to be a bitch in my earlier message.  Diana told me and… oh honey… I’m… [sniffs].  I don’t… call me, please.”_

**Beep.**

_“This is Eyes on Main with a reminder that it’s time for your yearly eye exam!  Please call to schedule one today!  It is important that your doctor have up to date records for all your eye care needs.”_

**Beep.**

_“Katana, here.  Heard about your… what?  Nightwing.  Heard about your Nightwing.  So sorry.  Call me.”_

**Beep.**

_“Hey there, fearless leader.  It’s Vixen.  God, sweetie, you’re in my thoughts and prayers every night and so’s he."_

**Beep.**

_“This is Professor Martina Jackson from the Gates School of Library and Information Sciences.  I’m sorry to hear about your friend.  I can give you a two-week extension for your dissertation hearing, but not any longer.  Again… my thoughts and prayers are with you and yours.  If you need to talk to someone, counselling services are available at student health.”_

**Beep.**

_“BG, it’s Red.  Got a lead on Bane.  Bet you good money he’s going to try and muscle in on Bludhaven.  We can take him.  Call me.”_

**Beep.**

_“Babs, it’s Dad.  Call me or I’m sending a cop to your apartment.  Honey, I know you’re depressed, but I’m worried and you know which one will win out.  Coffee on Tuesday.  10 a.m.  Non-negotiable.  Love you.”_

**Beep.**

**43 Messages deleted.**


	32. Leap of Faith (x)

Damian waited until J’onn J’onzz – also known as Martian Manhunter – had finished his rounds to slip into the darkened room.  He used all of his stealth training to make his way to the bedside.  His brother laid there, intubated, surrounded by IVs and monitors.  The silence in the room echoed the vastness of the universe that existed around the space station.

_“The doctors at Bludhaven General performed gastric lavage and administered activated charcoal and diazepam.  We’ve used muscle relaxers to control the contractions,” said J’onn J’onzz.  “Nightwing was found early enough that he may make a full recovery, but we had to intubate when his airway became paralyzed.  If he shows improvement during the next twenty-four hours, he may live.”_

_“And if he doesn’t?” asked his father._

_Manhunter’s gaze softened.  “You may have to prepare some final arrangements.”_

Damian snuck into the bathroom that was attached to Dick’s hospital room in the Watchtower.  He performed the wudhu – ritual washing – as quietly as he could.  He had been scratched accidentally by Superman in his initial struggle to make it to the room and blood had been shed.  Damian wanted to make sure that Allah would hear his prayer.  However, Damian was concerned that any loud noise would cause Dick to go into convulsions.  He never wanted to see his brother like that again.

Damian knew in his heart that he was a poor excuse for a Muslim.  He believed that Allah was the only god and that the Prophet was his messenger.  However, Damian often wondered if The Buddha was also a messenger of Allah that had been sent to another part of the world.  Such a thought would have been considered blasphemous by his nurse Amina.

It was only within the last year that he had tried to pray five times a day, missing the mark more often than he made it.  He made it a habit to pray every morning after his shower.  It was easy to sneak away to do the noon and late afternoon prayers when he was homeschooled.  Damian had not yet figured out how to ask his teachers if he could go off to pray now that he was in a private school.  He tried to fit in the sunset prayer before patrol, but often abandoned it when Batman was in a hurry.  Sometimes after patrol, all Damian wanted to do was sleep and the evening prayer would be forgotten. 

He had not fasted during Ramadan for most of his life.  He gave alms to the poor but did so because it was what his earthly father expected, not for the glory of Allah.  He had not made the hajj.   

When he first arrived, Damian never talked about his faith.  Batman never talked about his beliefs, but he had become more supportive of his son’s.  Drake was atheist, maybe agnostic.  Todd had referenced Christianity once, but Damian did not know exactly which denomination or if he was a regular practitioner.  Alfred was Anglican.  Dick was a non-practicing Roman Catholic.  Damian struggled with Islam.  It was the faith of his mother and grandfather.  Considering their worldview, Damian was not sure if he wanted to be associated with it.

Dick had changed his mind.                                                                

_“Let me ask you something,” Dick had said once while they were on a rooftop in Bludhaven.  “Am I a con-man? A thief?  A liar?”_

_Damian had stated that Dick was none of those things.  When Dick was a liar, it was usually because Batman had ordered it._

_“No, I’m not.  But the minute I tell someone my family is Romanichal, that’s inevitably the response I’d get.  Or they’d ask me to read their fortunes, if I was going to steal their stuff.  The usual bullshit.  Honestly, it’s a miracle I haven’t been arrested for assault in my civilian identity._

_“I get it, you know.  Every time something went missing – car keys fell out of someone’s pocket or a cellphone slipped under the bleachers in the Big Top – the cops always came to and searched our trailer first.  Every town, every time.  I’d watch my mother calmly suffer the humiliation of people assuming she was a thief because she was Romanichal.  And even at eight, I thought it was bullshit that my mom was always the scapegoat when things went missing.  Haly tried to point out that she was an upstanding citizen, and my father would rail, but… yeah.  Even after the missing item was found, there was never an apology._

_“I never told Bruce or Alfred about my heritage because I knew – or thought I knew – exactly what they would think.  I was already a circus freak.  Why add to it?” He looked at Damian.  “I left it all behind.  I’m pushing thirty, Damian.  I barely remember the language.  I don’t go to Mass.  I’m trying to relearn the culture my parents gave me without them.  It was their legacy to me, and I threw it away.  Now, the few distant relatives I have from my mother’s family sees me as another gadje and I have to fight to prove that I am Romani._

_“Damian, whatever you decide, I want you to become someone that you want to become.  I want you to take pride in your faith and your heritage.  I want you to avoid the mistakes that I made.  No matter what you decide, I’ll be here to support you either way.”  _

Damian quietly turned off the light in the bathroom and left carrying his shoes and socks in his hand.  He placed the shoes by the door, then crept back to Dick’s bedside.  Damian watched the unnatural rising and falling of Dick’s chest as the ventilator did its job.  Standing there, he raised his hands towards his face.

It was easy to fall back into his first language.  Damian took great care not to actually say the words out loud but mouthed them instead. 

“Merciful One, I know that I am not worthy to come before you but I come on behalf of one I love.” Damian swallowed.  “His name is Richard John Grayson.  He is greater than a brother, but not quite a father to me.   He is in need of Your mercy.”

Staring down at Dick’s unconscious form, Damian tried to remember the du’as that Amina had taught him before she disappeared.  She had often whispered them over him when he had been injured during training with his mother.  He knew that he could not actually touch Dick – the stimulus might set off convulsions – so he hoped Allah would be willing to accept a compromise.

Damian was well aware that mental illnesses were not caused by demons or other supernatural causes.  However, desperate times called for desperate measures.  Dick needed to get off of the ventilator within the next ten hours or the unthinkable may occur.  By now, his father would be searching the Watchtower for him.  Hovering his hand over Dick’s head, Damian mouthed,

_Oh Allah! The Sustainer of Mankind! Remove the illness, cure the disease. You are the One Who cures. There is no cure except Your cure. Grand us a cure that leaves no illness._

_I ask Allah, the Mighty, the Lord of the Mighty Throne, to cure you._ Damian repeated seven times. 

“Ameen,” Damian concluded.  It was done.  He would learn to live with the outcome – whatever it would be – but he hoped that Allah heard him. 

Damian left the room as quietly as he had entered.  The scolding he received from Batman for disappearing was completely worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, please let me know if something is not accurate or needs to be edited!


	33. Round the Bend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a quick heads-up: mentions of intoxication, ramblings about death, and vomiting. If that makes you uncomfortable, jump to where it says, "The next morning was hellacious."

The shot glasses stood in an orderly line, mocking him. 

He had one mission:  drink every single liquor in Josephine’s, starting from the top shelf and working his way downward.  He was about halfway through the second shelf when the bartender finally cut him off. 

Yesterday, Jason finished drinking his way through the Iceberg Lounge.  He was less than a quarter of the way through Josephine’s stock.  He realized that he may have to come back tomorrow. 

The room was spinning.  Jason knew that he was well and truly plastered.  On the other end of the bar, Killer Croc and the Riddler were casting concerned glances in his direction.  Fuck them.  Nosy shits. 

“Hey.  Hey-ey.  ‘M sober ‘nuff for another,” he bellowed to the bartender.

“Sure,” she replied with a sarcastic grin.  “Here you go.”  She pulled out the bar gun and filled all ten shot glasses with water.  “Enjoy.”

“Oh, c’mon!” Jason whined as the bar’s door opened.  Out of the corner of his eye, Jason saw a purple-clad figure making her way towards the bar.  She sat down next to him. 

“’Sup, Spoiler.  Come t’spoil my fun?” Jason gave her a lopsided grin. 

Stephanie cocked an eyebrow.  “Any particular reason why you’re trashed at 2:30 in the afternoon?”

“’M not breakin’ any laws.  I’ve been a good boy.  Didn’ even smash that dude’s face in o’er there.” Jason pointed to a Nazi skinhead at the pool table who was the target of glares from everyone in the room.  “’N b’leve me… The fact that he’s breathin’ is reason ‘nuff for me punch his face in.  I think that it’s my civic duty to punch Nazis.  Amirite?” Jason bellowed to the patrons of the bar. 

“Yep,” said the Riddler as he popped a handful of peanuts into his mouth.

“Pretty much,” muttered Killer Croc into his beer. 

“See?” Jason slurred.  “Maybe I should go be patriotic an’ reenact World War II.”  Jason went to rise from the bar and was unsuccessful. 

“Y’know,” said Stephanie.  “I’m pretty sure that he’s going to get his eventually.  I’m more worried about you.  What the hell is going on with you?”

Jason suddenly felt like he was going to vomit.  Maybe he had drunk too much.  “I’ve got me a mission an’ I’ve chosen t’accept it.  I’m gonna drink every liquor ever made by man.”

“Why?”

Jason swallowed.  He reached for one of the shot glasses and downed the water.  It did not settle well in his stomach, but he felt a mite bit better.  “The universe is a fucking bitch an’ I hate ‘er.”

“Why is the universe a bitch?”

“’Cuz every time I don’t wanna know somethin’, suddenly I know it.  An’ the one fucking time I really wanna know how somethin’s gonna end, I get bumpkiss.  Like, what the fuck’s wi’ that?”  Jason downed another shot of water.  “See, there’s two ways this can go.  An’ I don’t know if I wanna be sober when one’a them happens, y’know?”

Jason downed his third shot of water.  Yep, vomiting was definitely in his future.  “I’ve been dead before,” he slurred as he leaned in towards Stephanie.  “An’ I gotta tell you:  dying?  ‘Snot fun.  Fucking sucks.  ‘Cuz see, when I died?  It wa’n’t the damn crowbar that killed me.  I prob’ly coulda survived being hit like a fucking piñata if I’d gotten to a fucking hospital.  It was the damn bomb that killed me.  An’ honestly?  It fucking hurt. 

“There are a lotta painful ways to die,” he continued as Stephanie motioned to the bartender.  “Y’wanna know the worst, in my opinion?  Joker gas.  It’s not the nitrous oxide that kills you.  It’s the strychnine the fucker puts in it.  You’ve been hit wi’ it.  Y’know what ‘m talkin’ ‘bout.  An’ that?  Right there?  That’s fucking painful.  So, as you’re laughing your ass off, your respiratory system’s shutting down an’ your muscles are contracting an’ you die.  Joker’s one sadistic motherfucker.” 

The bartender placed a rum and coke in front of Stephanie.  She took a sip.  “I’m assuming there’s a reason for this morbid monologue?”

Jason downed another shot of water.  “Your dad was the fucking Cluemaster.  Clue me in on this:  why would Nightwing want to spend the last few minutes on this damn Earth in fucking agony?  ‘Cuz that, right there, is what I don’ understand.  An’ I wanna know.”  He burps.  Oh, yeah.  He’s definitely going to puke.  “I wanna know if we’re the unlucky ones.  I wanna know how bad we’re screwed.  ‘Cuz let’s face it: our little family?  It ain’t gonna survive if he dies.  No fucking way.  An’ if that’s the case?  I don’t wanna be sober for the rest of my life.”

“You’re assuming he’s going to die,” Stephanie retorted. 

“Hope for the best, assume the worst,” Jason drawled.  He hummed.  “Jusso we’re clear:  ‘m prob’ly gonna puke on you.  Juss FYI.”

Stephanie chugged her rum and coke.  “Awesome,” she said as she finished.  “I’m here to collect you.  There’s news, and I’m not spoiling it for you when you’re too drunk to remember it.”  She stood, putting her arms under Jason’s armpits.  “I’m walking your ass to the bathroom, I’m going to make you puke, and then I’m taking you home.  Capisce?”

“Batgirl sent you, didn’ she?”

“Oh yeah.  She heard about your little escapades at the Iceberg Lounge last night, and sent me before you got yourself arrested for public intoxication.  Artemis told Batgirl you were here.”

“Snitches ‘n ditches,” Jason lolled as Stephanie hoisted him to his feet. 

“Please tell me you’ve paid your bar tab,” grunted Stephanie. 

“Dunno.  Maybe?”

Stephanie looked at the bartender.  “He’s all paid up,” she said.

Stephanie sighed in relief.  She dragged Jason to the men’s room.  “Hey-ey,” whined Jason, “you’re not s’posed t’ be in ‘ere.  You’re a girl.”

Stephanie rolled her eyes.  “Is that an observation or a diagnosis?”

Jason blinked.  “I dunno wha’ those words mean.”

Stephanie groaned.  “Okie-dokie,” she muttered as she wrestled Jason into the nearest stall.  Luckily, it was clean. 

“Dunno who you think I am, but ‘m not that kinda girl,” slurred Jason.  “Ow!” he yelped as Stephanie’s foot collided with the back of his knee.  He was forced to kneel in front of the toilet. 

“Let this be a testament of how much I respect Batgirl,” Stephanie muttered glumly.

“Wha—” Jason turned to ask Stephanie a question.  Before he could get any words out, Stephanie shoved her fingers down his throat.  The result was almost instantaneous.  Stephanie turned Jason’s head, and a day’s-worth of alcohol ended up in the toilet.  Jason heaved as his stomach emptied.  Stephanie awkwardly patted his shoulder.

“There you go, big guy.  Let it out.” 

“Oh, God,” Jason moaned as he hugged the bowl, “It’s gonna to get worse from here, innit?”  He vomited again.

“Yep,” Stephanie responded as she popped the “p” for emphasis. “You’re in for the mother of all hangovers, buddy.  If you’re lucky, the great Saint Alfred may just have mercy on your soul.  Otherwise, you are in for a world of hurt.”

Jason moaned pitifully.  Once his stomach had emptied, Stephanie wrestled him out of the bar and onto her motorcycle.  She passed a helmet to him. 

“Hang on,” she commanded.  Jason frowned at the helmet.  It was bright purple with a Happy Bunny sticker on the back.  He sighed.  He was too drunk to drive his own motorcycle.  “Red Robin’s coming to collect your motorcycle,” Stephanie explained as though reading his mind.  “He’ll be here in ten minutes.”

Jason did not remember much about the ride to Wayne Manor.  He vaguely remembered being hauled up the stairs to his bed, the faint sensation of being undressed, and the feeling of his head hitting his pillow. 

The next morning was hellacious. 

Jason’s mouth felt like he had sucked on thirty moldy cotton balls.  His head throbbed with the intensity of a dubstep bass beat.  Everything hurt. 

He heard the door open.  Jason cracked open one eye and promptly shut it.  Alfred had opened the curtains, allowing sunlight to stream in.  _Since when_ , Jason thought miserably, _had the sun become so fucking bright?_

“Hey,” a voice whispered softly.  “Are you ok?  Are you dead?”

Jason let out a zombie-esque moan.  It was Timmy. 

Tim continued whispering.  “I brought the Bat Family Hangover Treatment.  You need to get up.  Batman’s called a family meeting and he expects you there.”

“Light.  Burns.” moaned Jason. 

“Ok,” said Tim.  There was the sound of a tray being set on the bedside dresser.  Jason counted Tim’s steps and realized that he was going to the window.  There was a rustle of fabric as the curtains moved.  Jason cracked open an eye.  The room was considerably darker.  He groaned and pulled himself into a sitting position.

Timmy the Replacement had gone all out.  There was a bottle of Gatorade, dry toast points, and aspirin.  There was a pair of sunglasses on the tray.

“Timmy, I love you,” Jason said at full volume. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Tim said softly.  “Get your ass up.  Meeting’s in ten.”  With that, he left the room.

Jason hauled him up.  The room spun slightly.  He downed half the bottle of Gatorade before heading to the bathroom to pee.  He downed two aspirin and sipped the second half of the Gatorade bottle.  He nibbled on the dry toast before getting dressed.  He shoved the last toast point into his mouth, pulled on his jacket, put on the sunglasses, and headed downstairs.

The family was gathered in the kitchen.  Barbara, Damian, and Cassie were already seated at the dining room table.  Stephanie was raiding the fridge.  Tim was pouring himself a large cup of coffee.  Jason went over to the coffee pot to grab some as well.

"How nice for you to join us, Todd," snapped Damian.  "Where the hell have you been for the last four days?"

Jason glared at him.  "On a bender."

“So, Jason,” said Barbara, louder than necessary.  “How are you feeling?”

Jason winced.  “You’re going to do this all day, aren’t you?”  He grabbed a mug. 

“Oh, yeah,” she nodded. 

“Jason,” said Cassandra, tilting her head.  “You look,” she frowned as she thought of the right word before settling on, “sick.  Why?”

“This, Cassie,” continued Barbara in a projected voice, “is what a major hangover looks like.  This is why one should not drink to excess.”

Jason sighed as he finished pouring his cup of coffee.  “Go ahead, mock my misery and broadcast my moral failings, why don’t you?”

“I don’t have to mock you,” replied Babs.  “You did a bang-up job making a fool out of yourself.  Do you know how long I was up last night trying to erase all traces of your idiocy off of Youtube?  I have no sympathy for you today.”

The room immediately hushed as Bruce entered.  Jason waited with bated breath.  This was it.  Stephanie quickly took a seat next to Tim.  Jason remained standing at the kitchen island. 

“Hello, everyone,” Bruce began.  “Thank you all for coming today.”

Jason rolled his eyes at the formality. 

“As you all know, Dick has been in the ICU for the last four days.  He has been on a ventilator.”

Jason’s heart hammered.  The use of the past tense was making him tense. 

“The poison that he ingested was relatively fast-acting, but we were able to notify first responders in time.  There were some complications due to the impurities found in the sample that I retrieved from his apartment.  These impurities caused multiple cardiac arrests.”

Jason looked around the room.  He did not need to hear the play-by-play.  Bruce was treating this whole thing like a damn mission debrief.  Stephanie was holding Tim’s hand.  Damian was sitting like he was at a Wayne Enterprise Board Meeting.  Barbara had rested her chin on her thumbs.  Cassie’s face was stone.

“Was.  Had.” Jason snapped.  “What about ‘Is?’  How is he?”

Damian glared at Jason.  Jason knew he was being rude for interrupting.  He was hungover and did not have any more fucks to give.

Bruce huffed and ground his teeth.  “The poison has been completely removed from his system.  Dick was taken off the ventilator this morning.  He is breathing normally, and there is no evidence of any neurological damage.  He’s going to make a full recovery.”

Everyone in the room let out a sigh of relief.  Damian exited the room.  Tim hung his head as Stephanie rubbed his shoulders.  Barbara pulled out her phone.  Judging by the conversation, she was calling Duke.  The house suddenly felt stifling.  Jason needed to get out.

He went out into the back gardens and found his favorite tree.  He sank to the ground while patting the pockets of his jacket.  Sure enough, there was a pack of cigarettes and a lighter in one of the pockets.  Jason pulled out a cigarette and lit it.  He took a heavy drag.

“You should stop that,” came Cassie’s voice from in the tree.  “It is not good for your lungs.”

“Y’know,” said Jason as he took another drag, “I’ve actually been trying to quit.  Only started to piss off Bruce.  Teenage rebellion thing.”  He exhaled the rest of the smoke.  “In lieu of recent events… maybe it’s time I did really stop for good.  I like the nicotine buzz, but not that much.”

“I’d appreciate it if you did,” said Cassie. 

“Better savor this then, if it’s my last.”

He smoked in silence.  A breeze wafted through the trees, rustling the new leaves.  The earth still smelled damp from the rains earlier in the week. 

“He saw me dance.”

Jason thought Cassie had left.  He had one more puff left on his cigarette.  She continued.  “He looked sad, then.  I didn’t think… I… see so much.”

“Don’t beat yourself up over it, Cass.  You’re not a meta.  And Dick’s a good liar.  I think everyone forgets that.”  Jason ground out the embers of his cigarette into the earth.  Making sure that it was completely out, he put the filter into his pocket. 

“Maybe.”

Jason stretched.  He settled into the roots of the tree, resting his hands on his chest.  He watched the clouds float by.  One looked like a dog.  One looked like a set of earbuds.

“Is that why you got drunk?” Cassandra’s voice came from the branches.  “You thought… he was dead?”

“Yeah,” Jason sighed. 

The sun was shining.  Birds were singing.  Jason rested his head against the tree’s trunk.  Heaving another sigh, he felt his eyes fill with tears of relief.  Dick was alive.  Everything was going to be ok.  It still didn’t stop the knowledge that – somewhere out there – there was another Jason mourning his older brother.

“Jason?”

“Yeah, Cass?”

“Take care of yourself.  Please.”

“I always do.”

“We… lost so much here.  Sometimes, we find it again.  Not always so lucky.”

Jason thought about that.  “I will if you do.”

“Okay.  Promise.”


	34. The Pond Scum Society

Three pistol shots rang out as a blond-haired woman in a red and black checkered pantsuit stood on top of the bar in Josephine’s.  She lowered her pistol as the room fell silent.

“Alright, youse guys, this meeting of the Pond Scum Society is officially comin’ t’ orda,” announced the Brooklyn-accented voice of Harley Quinn.  She gave the pistol back to the barman with a wink and a kiss.  She cleared her throat and sifted through her notecards. 

“First of all, I’d like t’ introduce a few newcommahs to the Society,” she motioned to a sandy-haired Amazon and a grey-skinned zombie-like copy of Superman sitting in a booth against the wall.  “Artemis and Bizarro are prospective members, and this is their first meeting.  So, let’s give ‘em a round of applause, please.”  The room broke out in polite applause.

“So, welcome to the Pond Scum Society for Anti-Heroes and Reformed Criminals.  Our motto is ‘Reformed, Ever Reforming.’  We offer financial, legal, and psychological counsellin' for those of us who are attemptin' to bettah ourselves within reason.  And yes, Harvey, I know that’s also the motto of the Presbyterian Church, USA.  If they want to sue me, I’ll give ‘em a new definition of Robert’s Rules.

“Please remember to sign in in order t’ win a $50 gift card to Yum-Yamu for attendin’ tonight.  Winner must be present t’ win.  Thank you, Penguin, for arrangin' that.

“First order of old business:  if you’re the prayin’ type please keep Barry ‘Big Stick’ Manitoba and his wife Susan in yer prayers.  Their daughter, Hannah Aria, was born ten weeks premature – heh, her initials are HAM; she’s gonna kill her parents when she gets olda.  She’s in the NICU at Gotham Children’s, but since most of us are banned from the place, we’ll be passin’ around a hat for donations to help offset the cost of her care.”  Harley signaled for two men to pass around a pair of fedoras.  “Give what ya can.  Barry’s sent pitchers.  She’s adorable.  If Mr. J had been in a family way, I’d’ve had a brood by now.

“If you are a legitimate business owner, please remember that there’s still talks of repealin’ the Affordable Care Act – also called Obamacare – which will probably affect the coverage of your – ah-hem – employees considerin' almost every single one of them probably has a pre-existing condition courtesy of their line of work.”

“Wait,” said Black Mask at one of the front tables.  “The ACA and Obamacare are the same thing?”

“Uh, yeah,” responded Edward Nigma, known more commonly as The Riddler.  He was seated at the back of the room sipping a soda with bitters. 

“But I voted for someone who promised to repeal Obamacare!  I thought –” Wisely, Black Mask stopped talking as he surveyed the annoyed looks of everyone else in the room.

“Ok,” said Harley Quinn, “Y’know what, I’m gonna deal with yer special brand a’stupid later, ok?” She dropped that notecard and continued.  “Ok.

“The Penguin is offerin’ a financial literacy seminar called ‘Breaking Out:  Planning for a Crime-Free Future.’  It’s a twelve-week course at twenty bucks a session, which honestly is, like, ten times cheaper than any other course you’ll find out there.  It will be held in the December Room of the Iceberg Lounge every Friday startin’ next week.  Take it!  Believe me,” Harley looked over at Penguin, “I’ve followed his advice and I’m proud t’ say that I’ve almost paid off all of my student loans from my doctorate.  How many slots are there?”

“Forty slots for this session,” piped up the Penguin.  “However, I am in the process of offering an online course as well.  I’ll let all of you know once my staff and I get that up and running.”

“Awesome, keep us posted.  Additionally, as a reminda, Harvey Dent is still offerin’ his free legal clinic here at Josephine’s every Thursday night from 8-11pm.  Make sure you’re actually talkin’ to Harvey.  You can tell if there’s a difference.  I’ll still be headin’ up the free support group on Mondays and Wednesdays at 8pm.  Runs about an hour, maybe an hour and a half. I also offer individual counsellin’ sessions by appointment, but there’s a fee.

“Alright, so that concludes old business,” Harley dropped the last notecard onto the bar.  “Now on t’ new business.

“So, at our last meetin’, it was brought to my attention that the usual vigilante crowd was gettin’ a little too heavy-handed with the fisticuffs and harassment – if you know what I mean.  Worst offenders bein’ The Bat, the Brat, and the Red Hood – sorry new guys.  Considerin’ that they almost put poor Mikey D into the ICU – and he’s the third guy this week who went for a ride in the wagon – we had voted that an investigation would be done to determine the cause of their unusual demeanor.”

“Ok,” came a voice from the middle of the room, “we do have to admit that sometimes we get ourselves involved in activities that lead us into those situations.”

“True,” conceded Harley, “however, the aforementioned vigilantes know how to control themselves too.  And they’d been doin’ a pretty decent job, all things considered.”  She glanced around the room.  “I’m assuming everyone here is familiah with what happened?”

Heads nodded sadly.  Everyone in the room had been affected by Darkseid’s attack on Gotham, and everyone knew that the Bat and his family had lost one of their own.  Waynetech had released an updated reversal process for those who had been captured and mutated in the last attack that they said proved promising.  In the event of a future attack, the company was offering an income-based payment plan for the process, a reduced rate for citizens below the poverty line, and sponsored access to mental health clinics across the country.  LexCorp, which everyone knew had stolen the tech, was charging out the wazoo for the same thing.  Even the most hardened villain – including the Joker – thought that was cold blooded.

“So,” continued Harley after an appropriate amount of respectful silence had passed.  “Mistah Nigma done some diggin’ as to what has set off the Bat-Boys.  And I’m not sure I’m supposed t’ be spreadin’ this considerin’ the nature –”

“Oh, for the love of God, woman,” bellowed Black Mask.  “Get on with it.”

Harley sighed.  She had a pistol tucked in her boot and was debating whether or not Black Mask was worth jail time.  “Y’remember Nightwing?”  General nods all around.  “He tried t’ kill himself.”

The room fell into a shocked silence.  “So,” said Black Mask as The Riddler made his way to the bar to order another soda, “are we celebrating or –”

The Riddler’s fist made a resounding crack when it collided with Black Mask’s mask, causing a ten-minute brawl as people tried to tear the two apart. 

As Black Mask nursed his broken nose, The Riddler was held against the wall by Bizarro.  “Look,” Harley said, “we all know that Daddy Bats is a douchebag, and most of his kids ain’t all that bettah.  But Nightwing?  Even when he was under the cape and cowl, he was still pretty decent once he got over his own prejudices.”

“Agreed,” murmured the Penguin as he remembered his own suffering at the hands of Red Hood.  “I don’t care for the caped crusader and the rest of his ilk, but the former boy wonder has turned into an upstanding gentleman – comparatively speaking.”  There were nods from some of the former henchmen who had been on the wrong side of Nightwing’s fist before. 

“So, I make a motion,” Harley did a little dance, “that we work with our associates in the criminal underworld to get a cessation of hostilities for… how’s about… two months.  No big schemes, no murders, no rapes – though if any of you are inta that sorta thing, I’m gonna cut yer nuts off – no terroristic threats.  See if we can slow down the drug shipments for a bit.  Two months.  Give them some time to try and take care of their family member.  And we ain’t doin’ this for the Bat!  We’re doing this out of respect for all the respect that Nightwing has tried to show us in his own way over the years!”

“Hod on!” protested Black Mask.  “If he tried da off himself, how ze stobing mah shibmends?”

“It’s not him,” said The Riddler.

“Oh really?  Den who is id?”

The Riddler caught the subtle head shake from Artemis.  “Someone else.”

“Nuh-uh.  Doh one is stupid enoub to go to Bludhaven.  Supers don’t swab costumes unless it’s amb embergency.”

The Riddler rolled his eyes.  “You are, literally, too stupid for words.  You have surpassed stupidity.  I’d say you are ignorant, but I know you know better.  And people with developmental disorders have more common sense than you.  Congratulations.  You are officially Gotham’s village idiot.” 

“Gentlemen,” growled Harley, “stop talkin’ or I’m gonna put a bullet in you both.”  She sighed.  “Alright, we bettah wrap this up before there’s a homicide or something up in here.  All in favor of declaring a temporary ceasefire for two months in support of the hero Nightwing and his recovery, stand up.”

Black Mask was the only person who remained seated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays!!


	35. Hospital Beds, pt 1

They had barely finished materializing on the teleporter pads before Damian took off like a rocket towards the hospital wing.  Jason and Barbara soon followed in hot pursuit. 

One of the nurses waved at Damian as he ran past.  She had a stargazer lily in her hair, and shook her head fondly.  Damian quickly acknowledged her before skidding to a stop in front of Dick’s hospital room door. 

There he was. 

Dick was sitting up in bed, the hospital gown hanging slightly askew.  His face was paler than normal.  Damian took three steps into the room.  He was vaguely aware of Barbara’s presence to his left.  Dick’s head had turned when the three entered. 

“Hey,” Dick said softly, smiling in his hospital bed. 

Damian saw red. 

How dare he!  How dare he sit there and smile! 

That cocky bastard!  That selfish son of a bitch!  

Dick was planning to leave them.

He wanted to leave them.

Why did he want to leave them?

Wasn’t he enough for him?

Arms enveloped Damian.  Damian felt a nose in his hair.  Somehow, he had ended up on the hospital bed, straddling his brother’s torso.  Damian collapsed onto Dick’s chest.  His hands hurt. 

“I have no idea what you said to me,” whispered Dick, “but I’m sorry.  God, I’m so sorry.” 

Damian realized that he must have spoken to Dick in his first language.  He didn’t care.  His brain was too overwhelmed to think in English.  Damian buried his face into the crook of his brother’s neck. 

_Don’t leave me.  Please don’t leave me, too,_ he thought _._

“This isn’t your fault, little Bird,” Dick continued as he rubbed Damian’s back.  “It never was, and it never will be.  Do you understand?”

No.  No, he didn’t understand.  He didn’t understand why Dick would think that this was acceptable.  Sacrifice was one thing.  Sacrifice was honorable.  This?  This was something else entirely. 

The patch of hospital gown under Damian’s face suddenly felt wet.  To his shock and shame, Damian realized that he was crying.  Warriors did not cry.  Crying implied weakness, and weakness meant death.  At least, it did in the League of Assassins.  Making matters worse, he had witnesses.  Jason and Barbara were still in the room.  _Fuck it, and fuck them_ , he decided.  If they wanted to talk shit about him later, he’d deal with it then.

But Dick was here.  He was warm and sturdy and alive.  His heart was beating.  His chest rose and fell with each breath.  Damian focused on these things and found his body relaxing.

He must have dozed off.  Dick’s arms were still around him as he woke.  Damian controlled his breathing, keeping it even so he could eavesdrop on the conversation.


	36. Hospital Beds, pt 2

Jason hated hospitals.  Hated the bleachy smell, hated the ghastly fluorescent lights, hated every last bit of the building from the basement to the roof.  The fact that this hospital was on a fucking space station did not ease Jason’s hatred of the place.  The sooner he could get out of there, the better.

But this wasn’t about him. 

The Demon Brat had taken off, and someone had to watch the kid.  As much as Jason loathed some of the members of his adopted family, he had a soft spot for Damian.  He understood Damian. 

Jason also understood, as he held Barbara back from the bedside, the need to lash out at the world.  Watching Damian give Dick a black eye had been difficult, yet oddly satisfying.  Served him right. 

Knowing exactly what Damian had been screaming… that… not so much.

It did not take long for Damian to tucker himself out.  The kid nestled against Dick’s chest as Dick wrapped his arms around Damian.  Jason shifted uncomfortably at the intimacy.  This was not a moment meant for an audience. 

He pulled up a chair for Barbara and one for himself.  The group sat in silence, punctured only by the heart monitor’s beeping and Damian’s soft snoring. 

Jason stared at the floor, making geometric patterns out of the spots on the tiles.  There were a million things Jason could say, but none of them fit.  _Why did you do it?  Why didn’t you ask us for help?  What the hell were you thinking?_   He was angry.  He was relieved.  He was sad.  He was… probably the same way that Bruce had been when he met Jason after his resurrection.  Bearing any sort of similarity to his former mentor-fatherish figure was irksome, to say the least. 

Naturally, Dick broke the silence.  “Hope you’re not mad that I was muscling in on your thing, Jay.  That wa—”

“Stop,” Jason choked, his voice thick.  “Just stop.”  Dick’s mouth closed with an audible pop.  He hugged Damian a little tighter. 

Barbara rubbed Jason’s shoulders as she took Dick’s hand in hers.  “So, what now?” Dick whispered.    

“Depends,” said Barbara softly.  Jason stared at his hands in his lap.

Dick sighed.  His jaw clenched.  Barbara continued.  “Depends on you.  What you want to do.  And whatever it is, you know we’ll be behind you.”  She smiled grimly.  “You need to do whatever’s going to help you.  Because, this – this never happens again, do you understand me?”

“Babs, I –”

“I get it, Dick.  I really, really do,” Barbara measured her words carefully.  “We were lucky – you were lucky.  And there’s no guarantee that you will be lucky again.  We dropped the ball.  We allowed you to get close to that abyss and that will not happen again.”

“Why does everyone keep making this about them?  It was no one’s fault but my own.”

“The same reason why you blamed yourself for what happened to me,” Barbara snapped.  Dick winced.  It was a low blow, and everyone knew it. 

“That… that was… different,” Dick stammered.  “Bruce and I should have seen that coming, and… well,” he trailed off.  Jason knew the end of that sentence. 

_We should have taken care of that years ago._

Barbara measured her voice carefully.  “And we should have had a better contingency plan for an attack on the Manor.  Nevertheless, you’re not the first person in our little family to think of ending it.  I’ve thought about it.  Tim’s thought about it.  And I’ll bet you good money Bruce has thought about it.”

Jason’s head snapped up.  “You’ve what?”

Barbara shrugged.  “You do a lot of thinking when you’re alone in a hospital bed.  Not all of it is necessarily good.”  She gripped Dick’s hand tighter. 

“You don’t talk about that,” said Dick. 

“You never asked.”

“I was afraid to.”

“And we were afraid to ask you about Apokolips.  Because we love you, and we were afraid of hurting you.”

Dick nuzzled Damian’s hair.  “I know… I,” he sighed. “I thought about that… during,” he trailed off, weakly.   

“Not fun, is it?” said Jason in a monotone. 

“No.  It’s not.”

“Pipsqueak can tell you that, too.  Little bastard’s awake, by the way.  He’s been awake for the last five minutes.”  Damian flipped off Jason without moving from Dick’s chest.  Jason continued, “I joke about it because that’s how I cope with it.  Doesn’t mean I want to do it again.”

“And if you do, Richard,” muttered Damian from Dick’s chest, “I’m going to Hell and dragging your ass back myself.  Don’t think I won’t.”

“Yeah, Short Round, don’t.  It won’t end well for anyone,” said Jason.  “Well,” he amended after a quick thought, “then again, it might eventually work out.”  He had thought about that, too. 

Dick and Barbara frowned.  Damian shifted his head and glared at Jason.  “I don’t,” Barbara stammered, “I don’t… think I want to know why you’ve considered that.”

“You’d make a sexy comish, in all honesty.”

“That is not appropriate, and I will punch you in the face.”

“Father has Constantine’s number,” murmured Damian.  “Magic can’t be that hard.”

“You’d be a silver fox.  Kid’s got the cat already,” mused Jason.

“ _Really_ hard in the face,” said Barbara.

“I think he makes this shit up to get attention,” said Damian. 

The bickering stopped as Dick started laughing.  The chuckles soon changed as tears filled his eyes.  Damian shifted his position to allow room for Barbara and Jason.  Barbara, Damian, and Jason held Dick as he apologized repeatedly. 

There would be no going back after this, Jason realized.  The family dynamic had shifted and changed, and Jason’s role would change whether he liked it or not.  What bothered him was whether he was ready for it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience during my (unexpectedly long) hiatus. I had to step away from this for a bit because it was hitting a little too close to home. I've got a few more chapters in the final edit stages, and the ending is outlined. I hope that all is well with you.


End file.
